


worry paints hangang grey

by mismatched (miscalculated)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Idols, Alternate Universe - Medical, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, Cuddling, Doctor Jeon Wonwoo, Engagement, Frottage, Groping, Hand Jobs, M/M, Otter in a Collar the Remix, PLEASE read the chapter-specific notes for any extra warnings, Sharing a Bed, Stupidly-rich Junhui, Teacher-Student Relationship, Trophy-spouse Chan, jeonghoonists rise, subverted soulmate au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25633243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscalculated/pseuds/mismatched
Summary: A svt fic drabble. Each chapter is a new pairing/ficlet.Ch. 1: worry paints hangang grey (Jeonghan/Jihoon)Sometimes strangers, sometimes brothers — sometimes something else entirely. Jeonghan can’t explain it, but he doesn’t give a fuck about what this means, why they fall into this routine like they’ve never been anything more than lovers before, or after.Ch. 2: shatters like glass (Chan/Soonyoung)Ch. 3: tell you all that comes to me (Chan/Junhui)Ch. 4: frozen in time (Chan/Mingyu)Ch. 5: this is what we want (Chan/Seungcheol)Ch. 6: dr. jeon wonwoo (Wonwoo/Jihoon)Ch. 7: so they understand (Chan/Hansol)Ch. 8: my love is your love (Seokmin/Jihoon)Ch. 9: reflections on glass (Chan/Soonyoung)
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Chan | Dino, Chwe Hansol | Vernon/Lee Chan | Dino, Jeon Wonwoo/Lee Jihoon | Woozi, Kim Mingyu/Lee Chan | Dino, Kwon Soonyoung | Hoshi/Lee Chan | Dino, Lee Chan | Dino/Wen Jun Hui | Jun, Lee Jihoon | Woozi/Lee Seokmin | DK, Lee Jihoon | Woozi/Yoon Jeonghan
Comments: 53
Kudos: 222





	1. worry paints hangang grey (Jeonghan/Jihoon)

**Author's Note:**

> howdy,
> 
> this quick drabble came to be because i saw a video of jihoon willingly sitting in jeonghan's lap, and suddenly memories of them being my very first svt ship flooded back in. i just love their quiet dynamic, how jihoon falls so easily into jeonghan in a way that he doesn't with his other members. in conclusion: head empty, jeonghoon lives there rent free now. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy, as short as it may be. i have other short drabbles that i want to release at some point. 
> 
> thank you for reading, as always!!

Two events occur at once: Seventeen’s recent comeback results in zero wins - nothing off of the EP reaching the top fifty on Melon - and Jihoon all but moves into his studio, the door left permanently locked.

Objectively, it’s not a bad comeback. Not their best, but not their worst; they reach a quarter of a million album sales, their music video reaches three million, and the music critics are singing Seventeen’s praises online. Their previous release had double the sales, a couple of wins, and triple the views — but it’s still a decent reception. In everyone’s opinion, at least.

An opinion Jihoon doesn’t seem to share.

The company allows them a hiatus. Two months to relax and see family and friends whilst maintaining their image and their body weight, Younghwan had explained to them before their schedules even began. Anybody that wishes to stay in Seoul and continue releasing work via Youtube or social media are allowed to do so, but there’s no obligation. More than half of the members clear out of the dormitories before Pledis has the chance to change their minds; the announcement is posted to their official Instagram and Twitter the day of.

Jihoon doesn’t leave the studio. Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Chan, and Seokmin remain in Seoul.

Summertime in Seoul is sticky and unpleasant. The humidity makes Jeonghan feel like he can never take in a satisfactory amount of air, and his skin is grossly damp even after a few minutes spent outdoors. Despite this, he follows a routine for the sake of his sanity. The mornings are for walking down to the 7-eleven around their street corner and picking up some iced coffee. It’s not as hot then, with the sun only just beginning to rise beyond the city’s skyline— but where the sun is slacking, the thick curtain of humidity makes up for its absence. And Jeonghan can’t do much to alleviate how uncomfortable the summer can be when he’s forced to wear low hats and a mask.

His family home isn’t far from the dormitories. He can easily take the line back, enjoy the luxury of proper air conditioning instead of a ceiling fan that circulates the same, hot air around until he’s forced to billow his shirt for some relief. Seokmin infers as much, one weekday when Seokmin has to go practice for his musical. Jeonghan is in the kitchen heating up some leftover takeout, and Seokmin falters by the threshold, asks, “Why don’t you go home? There isn’t much to do here without any schedules,” while he hooks the straps of his face mask around his ears.

Jeonghan doesn’t bother to turn around to face him. “I’ll head over there eventually,” he says.

Seokmin seems to pick up that this isn’t something he wants to discuss and hums a response, quietly heads out.

Then the week passes in a slow, dreary amble. Chan and Soonyoung have made the dance studio their second home; Jeonghan performs his self-made schedule of morning coffee, afternoon walks, home-made dinners and solo movie nights. And Jeonghan hasn’t seen Jihoon since he disappeared behind his studio doors seven days ago.

The real reason Jeonghan hasn’t left is that he’s worried. It’s not something he wants to share with Seokmin or anyone else. It’s not their business, really. He and Jihoon have their own routine, a mutual understanding that dates back to when they were trainees and Jihoon was the brooding, silent puzzle that Jeonghan wanted to solve. That’s what it was in the beginning — a game fit for a single player. And albeit ten years of proximity has now been shared between them, Jihoon’s mystery has yet to be deciphered. Perhaps Jeonghan’s never stopped trying to figure it out. 

There are facts to Jihoon that Jeonghan does know, however. That he carries the weight of his members on his shoulders so heavily that any perceived failure unhooks his ribs and sets fire to his insides; that there’s no separation of personal life and work life — not like how Jeonghan compartmentalizes — so each dispute, every conflict, wounds him where very little should reach. That Jihoon is an easy target. He renders himself vulnerable, placing his entire worth in numbers and charts and tally marks of success. Top one-hundred to top fifty to top ten to top three. That Jihoon’s convinced this is all he has.

There’s no room for in between. Not with Jihoon. He soars or he sinks. This season, Jeonghan surmises he’s been swallowed whole.

Before, Jeonghan listened and Jihoon spoke. Maybe not readily, but the Jihoon of their early days was a little looser, a little clingier. Jeonghan touches in loud, intimate limbs, listens with silence and gentle eyes. Even as a teenager, Jihoon wouldn’t admit that he craved physical contact; he accepted and gave without words. Jeonghan— a slave to his own hunger for closeness — found himself exploiting that.

This is a dynamic that remains true. Jihoon’s relationships with the other members have slowly morphed into something simple, more permanent and safe — but his and Jeonghan’s never strays from the maze. They’re strangers sometimes, in that exciting, skin-prickling way where you look into someone’s face and find a soul worth keeping. Other times they’re family, two brothers that only have each other and not much else. (These are the days, weeks, that Jihoon tells Jeonghan what he needs with his disposition and not his voice. These are the days, weeks, that Jeonghan listens and touches.)

More rare, they’re something else entirely. Jeonghan can’t translate this into words. That isn’t what Jihoon wants, anyway, so he’s never bothered to. But, still, it could be because Jeonghan thinks in images and not in a constant, internal dialogue. Minghao told him once that often times those that speak multiple languages lose the ability to monologue inside their heads. Minghao can’t. When Jeonghan asked Hansol how he thought, Hansol couldn’t give him a straight answer. _I really don’t know — I never thought about it before_.

Not like this says much about Jeonghan since he only knows how to speak his native tongue. But he couldn’t stop ruminating over what Minghao said in passing, and it soon came to him that this could play a part into how easily he and Jihoon fold into one another. He thinks of Jihoon, and what comes to mind is a muddied picture of sharp fangs, a rounded face with half-moon eyes and fingers that narrow into pink. His worry doesn’t talk; instead, Jeonghan’s canvas darkens. Neon blue lights, computer fluorescence. The haunting pallor of Jihoon’s face, lips chapped and pupils poisoned with death.

Ten days should be enough time for space. On Tuesday, Jeonghan alters his schedule and goes to the music studio.

Jeonghan knows the code, but he knocks and lets Jihoon decide whether to let him in or not. He has to wait fifteen seconds before Jihoon materializes on the other side, the bill of his snapback low on his face, oversized clothes drowning him.

“I want to go on a walk,” Jeonghan says. “But I don’t want t’go without a chaperone.”

Jihoon remains in the doorway, hand on the handle to keep it closed as much as possible. He doesn’t look up.

They go on a walk.

The sun has yet to breach the skyline, so they’re still left with humidity. The scent of pine smells stronger in the summer. Jeonghan leads Jihoon to the 7-eleven, buys two iced coffees while Jihoon meanders thoughtlessly in the snack aisle, then leads him back out. They start towards a road canopied with trees, cars gliding by on the road to their right.

Jeonghan hands Jihoon his drink (light ice, splash of milk).

“Hangang Park,” Jeonghan says. He uses his free hand to tuck a stray lock of bleach blonde hair behind his ear. “The cherry blossoms aren’t as pretty anymore, but we never got the chance to see them bloom this spring.”

Jihoon makes a noncommittal hum around his straw. They ease to the left when a family passes them from the right.

“I wish we could’ve,” he continues. “Last year we missed it, too. Soonyoung and Mingyu said they’d go with me.”

Another noncommittal hum. The park is still a few kilometers away, but Jeonghan can see the glimmer of the Han river in the distance. The river bank looks crowded.

Jeonghan sighs. His next inhale catches a pine-heavy breeze. “I was more pissed about missing the bloom last year than I let on.” He side glances at Jihoon, whose face is obstructed by his navy blue hat. “Remember? I didn’t say a word until we got to the studio.”

Jihoon nods.

“In hindsight,” Jeonghan says. “I was being a dumb ass. Just because I couldn’t see the flowers bloom didn’t mean I could _never_ see them. Our job is busy, but. But whose isn’t, right? We’re all busy.”

Jihoon takes another sip of his coffee, swallows before he says, “Is this supposed to be a pep talk? Some stupid metaphor about missed chances, or something?”

Jeonghan laughs, two short noises. He knocks his shoulder into Jihoon’s and jostles him towards the curb. “No. I’m just talking.” Another snort. “You should know me better than that.”

“Had to make sure.”

Hangang changes Jihoon. There are mothers sprawled out on blankets, their children chasing one another across the field. School-aged kids have set up tents too small to fit more than two people, but they maneuver themselves until three or four teenagers are crammed inside. And although it’s subtle enough to be missed, the cherry blossoms carry a very delicate aroma. It’s their presence, more so than their smell, that’s calming. Jeonghan finds them a spot on the grass isolated from the crowd; they risk getting caught to tuck their masks under their chins and drink their iced coffees.

“I still think about… how we almost disbanded,” Jihoon starts. Jeonghan watches him watch the glitter of water stretched ahead. “This. It feels like it again.”

Jeonghan carefully settles his coffee onto the side not occupied by Jihoon and leans back on his palms. His legs bend in at the knees. “What does? Hiatus?”

“Yeah,” Jihoon says. “And — the sales.” He picks at the grass with antsy fingers. “We made the same as then. And now we’re on hiatus.”

“Jihoonie.” Jeonghan shifts his weight onto his left hand to lay his right one on Jihoon’s thigh. He applies a hint of pressure; this stirs Jihoon to make eye contact. “Hiatus was decided before the comeback. This is completely unrelated.”

Jihoon’s face is shadowed by the bill of his snapback, but it’s not difficult to see the white of his skin, thin lips pale and chapped. They don’t live on the same floor, so Jeonghan can’t know for certain, but it doesn’t seem like he’s left the studio for more than a quick shower. There haven’t been any food deliveries, either. Jihoon’s muscle mass saves him from appearing gaunt; his pallor tells a different story. Burden is an illness that’s carved him hollow.

“It was,” Jihoon’s inflection wavers. Jeonghan watches his mouth try to form words. “That could change. You know that could change. How am I gonna— I can’t risk —it could happen again. Jeonghan, it could happen, and we could— “

Jeonghan sits quietly as Jihoon’s resolve eviscerates. Jihoon tilts his head down into his knees and doesn’t say anything else.

Jeonghan doesn’t have an internal dialogue. He thinks and dreams in pictures, in his sense of smell and touch. Inside of his head, there isn’t his own voice speaking to him; but there’s Jihoon, palpable in abstract shapes and colors and smells. And there’s Jeonghan, there as well as here, sprawled across the Han riverbank, leaning into Jihoon’s side and swallowing him whole in this reality, being swallowed whole in another. Worry paints Hangang grey.

The eighth floor is empty. Jeonghan tugs Jihoon onto the common space couch with him and stabs at the remote buttons until he has some animated Spiderman movie playing. Then he’s curling an arm around Jihoon’s waist and tugging him close close close, and Jihoon tucks his head into Jeonghan’s shoulder, his palm pressed to Jeonghan’s chest. He keeps curling, and Jeonghan keeps squeezing, and soon enough they’re tangled up in one another, Jihoon’s legs tossed over Jeonghan’s lap, Jeonghan’s free hand holding him on a knee.

He’s in basketball shorts. Jeonghan runs his thumb along the bare, thin skin of Jihoon’s kneecap. The movie volume is too loud, loud enough to carry through the entire dormitory floor — but Jeonghan prefers it this way. Jihoon prefers it this way. It’s a distraction not meant to be watched, only there to fill in the noise, to poorly mask Jihoon’s whimpers as Jeonghan mouths at his jaw and to drown out Jeonghan’s voice as he speaks the things he wouldn’t say otherwise.

Sometimes strangers, sometimes brothers — sometimes something else entirely. Jeonghan can’t explain it, but he doesn’t give a fuck about what this means, why they fall into this routine like they’ve never been anything more than lovers before, or after. Jeonghan tongues the shell of Jihoon’s ear, nibbles at his earlobe and kisses the sensitive skin in gentle, languid presses. Beneath his arms he can feel Jihoon do a whole body shiver, his gasps impossible to be hidden by the noise with Jeonghan this close to his mouth.

His mouth. Jeonghan cups the hand that was on Jihoon’s knee under his chin and lifts his head, kisses that pink mouth. Jihoon is liquid in his arms; sweet little gasps escape him, only to turn into another, high whimper when Jeonghan licks past the seam of Jihoon’s lips. Jihoon’s fisting Seungcheol’s shirt at the shoulders, still shivering, mouth falling open for Jeonghan to lick over his tongue, steal his soft sounds and keep it for himself.

All for himself. The irony isn’t lost on Jeonghan; he despises that Jihoon loses himself in his members, in the band. Sometimes he wants to shake it out of him, drag him up from his studio office chair and tell him to stop fucking doing this, stop carrying everyone’s burdens as his own, stringing them together until Jihoon is more machine than man. A robot whose only purpose is to please his ‘brothers’. Because if this is all Jihoon has, all he is, who will he be when Seventeen is gone? How do you become your own person when your formative years were spent living for twelve others, for thousands?

Jeonghan says this — genuinely believes this — and yet here he is, unwilling to fight his primal desires to mark, to claim, to suck petals where Jihoon can’t hide it so everyone knows, knows _Jihoon lets me do this to him. Jihoon only lets_ me _see him vulnerable._ He always acts so strong, but this is him: pliant, desperate for Jeonghan to make it better. Fuck. Jeonghan is a man, too, isn’t he?

Jihoon moans like he sings. Thin, high, more breath than voice. Jeonghan detaches himself from Jihoon’s mouth, grabs a fistful of hair at Jihoon’s nape to force his head backwards and bare the pale line of his throat. And there’s that moan, Jihoon’s eyes fluttering closed, eyebrows inching together and his jaw slack. Jeonghan reattaches to Jihoon’s neck, on the side closest to him, using enough teeth to tease but not to bruise; this time, it’s a sob that escapes Jihoon, a leg jumping up as if by reflex. His fists tighten and pull at Jeonghan’s sleeves.

“Do—on’t leave any, _nn_ —“ Jihoon tries. Jeonghan shushes him.

He presses a trail of wet kisses down down down to the curve of his shoulder, then back up, smile touching his lips as Jihoon continues to shake and writhe on his lap, unable to keep still as if quiet touches were enough to carry him to climax. And maybe they can, since Jihoon hasn’t slept with another person for months now, the last time being Jeonghan. A visceral, more sadistic side of him wants to try, make Jihoon come without ever touching his dick, but he knows that isn’t what Jihoon needs right now. He needs to be pushed to his limit, to crumble and build back up, and Jeonghan wants to do that for him. Wants to—

“Shh,” Jeonghan hums against Jihoon’s throat. He mouths at him, teeth to tongue and back to lips; Jihoon’s skin flushes red so prettily in heat and arousal.

Jihoon doesn’t speak again. And Jeonghan isn’t stupid enough to believe that this can somehow fix everything, fix him. Them. Their quiet moments—when Jihoon unlocks the cage around his heart and lets Jeonghan kiss and fuck the tension from his muscles—aren’t ever going to lift burden. Jeonghan can’t magically make their sales double, triple. He can’t throttle the grief from Jihoon’s mind, have it seep out from his ears with enough effort. It’s an illness that not medication nor the warmth from another body can cure; Jeonghan isn’t a fucking dumb ass.

He’s a man, and he’s Jihoon’s only reprieve. He can be moody, and jaded, and he can be an asshole that ignores instead of faces disputes head-on. There’s a lot wrong with him, he knows. The worst part, maybe, is that Jeonghan wants Jihoon to stop tying himself to the tide of everyone else; yet Jeonghan vibrates with a sick thrill when Jihoon comes to him, shameless and needy to be touched and not spoken to. A game that Jeonghan should’ve never been trying to win— but they all have their own coping mechanisms. And this is his. This is his, and that’s alright, because this is Jihoon’s, too. As long as they’re Seventeen. As long as Jihoon wants him. 


	2. shatters like glass (Chan/Soonyoung)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soonyoung is suspended in the air, hanging only by a string that’s gradually thinning out like in those cartoons. He’s a carton character swinging upside down with a string tied to his ankle, and instead of fibers or yarn or whatever string is made out of, it’s a voice reverberating down a hallway. One that’s screaming, _you shouldn’t, you can’t, there are too many things wrong with this scenario. You’re sacrificing your hard work, and his hard work, and if—when—your boss finds out he’ll terminate your contract and out you and then beat you halfway into hell_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because i couldn't stop thinking about soonchan, but i don't have the time to write a full-length soonchan fic (for the moment).

They manage to get back to Gangnam from Mapo before the stations close at midnight. No one wants to turn in so early when most of the clubs are open until four a.m. and are just beginning to get busy, but they’re all either tipsy or drunk and with few options; it’s either Seungcheol or Minghao that suggests they continue the celebration at their apartment.

Seungcheol keys in the code to the door and they stumble in— Minghao with Jieqiong tucked under his arm, Seungcheol giggling at some nonsensical story Jeonghan’s explaining to him. Wonwoo is leaning on Junhui, mumbling and heavy-lidded.

Soonyoung can feel blood rushing inside his ears. His legs are so light that he’s probably one, good jump away from launching himself into the air. Soonyoung’s going to float up through the ceiling. It’s a genuine possibility. His only anchor is Chan’s waist— so Soonyoung clings to him for dear life, bodily swinging Chan as Chan holds on by his neck and laughs a breathless, “ _hyung_!” 

This has been a bad idea from the start. Soonyoung should’ve called Chan’s manger to come get him, or ushered him home early, or anything than _this_. The stations are closed, so there’s no going home that way. And there’s still uber, but that’s expensive and pointless; he can still call his manager, though. Wake him up from his sleep and tell him Chan needs a ride back to his own apartment and try not to blurt, _because it’s dangerous for him to be here with me_ in his drunken stupor. Another genuine possibility.

But, Soonyoung doesn’t do it. None of it. Soju has his limbs feeling feather-light and ten kilograms simultaneously; he can’t stop giggling and cracking jokes for the life of him; and as Seungcheol plays some R&B playlist and they gather in the living room to drink some more and chat, Soonyoung can’t unlatch himself from Chan. Chan isn’t letting go, either. Soonyoung _knows_ this is a terrible fucking idea.

At three a.m., there’s Soonyoung’s room. There’s Soonyoung’s curtains letting in splays of moonlight across his bed, and there’s a messy floor and unmade sheets—

and there’s Lee Chan, flushed pink and giggly, dropping back onto Soonyoung’s bed with his eyes fluttering closed, a soft smile on his lips. His hair is dark with subtle, brown highlights; his white tee shirt is rucked up, just enough to display the soft skin of his midriff, the sparse scatter of hair that disappears beneath his blue jeans. With his vision a euphoric haze of happiness and intoxication, Chan is haloed in white.

No matter how many times Soonyoung swallows, saliva pools high in his mouth. Chan came straight here, to Soonyoung’s room, as if there wasn’t any doubt about where he would be staying tonight. Chan said he wanted to go to bed and came straight here, Soonyoung wrapped around his waist and stumbling along with him. Here. In Soonyoung’s room. In Soonyoung’s bed.

He should say something. It’s time to be responsible and redirect Chan to the living room with Junhui and Jeonghan. This isn’t like Minghao and Jieqiong; they aren’t— Soonyoung shouldn’t— _can’t_ —

Chan kicks his jeans and socks off and crawls under Soonyoung’s burnt-orange covers. He shimmies over until he’s in the spot against the wall, flops onto his back, and blinks languidly at Soonyoung, who hasn’t moved from the middle of the room.

“Bed?” Chan asks, more air than voice.

His lips are so pink and sweet. Like… like a raspberry. No—like bubblegum. A soft, bubblegum-pink mouth and sharp eyes rounded with sleep. This is no good.

“Don’t wanna…” Soonyoung swallows another batch of seemingly endless saliva. “Brush your teeth? Or. Shower?”

Another languid blink. Chan shakes his head. “Mm-mm.”

The apartment is so quiet now. It’s jarring. Unnerving. Like everyone has their ears against the door, listening in. Soonyoung needs to erase the silence. Hammering of his heart and pooling of sweat at his temples and beneath his arms be damned: he needs to fill in this space and erase the tense air.

Soonyoung _tsks_ at him. “Dirty,” he chastises while kicking off his own jeans. “If you wake up with pimples all over your face don’t complain to me.”

Chan rolls his eyes. “Says the guy also getting into bed without brushi—“

“Shh. I’m different. I’m known for my dance, not my visuals.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Chan retorts, stupidly perfect white teeth bared as he laughs and watches Soonyoung crawl onto the mattress next to him. He helps Soonyoung situate himself beneath the covers, also on his back. “We’ll both be on stage with pimples.”

Soonyoung tries at a passive shrug. “That’s fine. At least I won’t be alone when we get bullied online for being ugly.”

Chan laughs again. Soonyoung thinks he can pick out that laugh in a stadium of people now. “That’ll happen whether we have flawless skin or not.”

“It’s the difference between five articles about your ugliness versus twenty,” Soonyoung says. “Easy arithmetic, I think.”

“Okay, mathematician,” Chan says. “Let’s count how long it’ll take for us to go to sleep.” He rolls onto his side, facing the wall, and reaches blindly behind himself to grab Soonyoung’s wrist. He tugs. “C’mere.”

Soonyoung lets himself get tugged onto his side despite the distant alarms screeching in the basement of his mind. “Where am I going aside from ‘to sleep’?” he asks with a laugh that leans close to manic.

“Around me,” Chan says like it’s simple. Like Soonyoung isn’t having a fucking crisis as Chan drags Soonyoung’s arm over his waist, close enough that Soonyoung’s chest is to his back, knees tucked behind his. “It’s cold.”

“Good thing there’s a handy invention called a blanket,” Soonyoung squeaks. “They’re fantastic at keeping you warm.” Chan’s hair smells like mint. His body is so god damn hot—a forest fire contained into the body of a small man—that Soonyoung wonders if he can actually be cold. Are bodies normally this warm? Soonyoung’s bleached fringe is dampening in sweat.

Chan grumbles something incoherent. He hasn’t let go of Soonyoung’s arm. His grip is a brand, imprinting invisible fingerprints into Soonyoung’s skin. “Be a good hyung and keep me warm,” he mumbles, somehow already drowsy. Does he fall asleep quickly? God, Soonyoung hopes so. The faster he passes out, the faster Soonyoung can free himself from Chan Jail and serve his probation: sleeping beside the prettiest boy he’s ever seen for one (1) night. Because, right now, the only way Soonyoung will be able to sleep whilst pressed flush to Chan’s back is if somebody rushes in and knocks him the fuck out.

The rush of blood is so loud. He can feel his pulse hopping out from his jugular vein in harsh thumps that can’t possibly be healthy. Chan’s going to give him a heart condition. He needs to go to sleep. Only reason Soonyoung knows Chan _hasn’t_ is because there’s a thumb gently brushing over the top of his hand, following the ridges of his knuckles.

It’s supposed to be soothing, probably, but in reality it’s anything but; Soonyoung’s vein isn’t going to be able to withstand the pressure any longer and will rupture, have him bleed out before he can even perform at their next stage. That’ll be tragic and a nightmare and Chan may not be able to recover from the trauma, so he needs to stop and go to sleep now. _Now_.

A sleepy little laugh rouses Soonyoung from another crisis. “You’re so tense,” Chan mumbles. “Am I bothering you?”

 _Yes_. “No,” Soonyoung says. “Just… nervous.” Oh—no. He shouldn’t have said nervous. Now Chan’s gonna—

Chan’s thumb stops moving. Soonyoung doesn’t have the biggest hands in the world (not even close), but Chan’s feel so small in comparison. Everything about his stature feels so small, fragile, so easily malleable in spite of the lean muscle and heady gaze he casts when dancing. Robust. Frail. Yet Soonyoung’s the one that’s going to shatter.

“Why?” Chan tries to glance over his shoulder, but Soonyoung shoots his hand up and presses his head back down into the pillow by his cheek. “Hyung?” If he turns, their faces will be too close. If he turns, Soonyoung will bite into those bubblegum lips and steal a taste. If he turns, he’ll see how wet Soonyoung’s forehead has gotten in such a short span of time. If he turns—

Chan shifts his hips. Not enough to really be considered purposeful, but it does the job well: Soonyoung realizes he’s half hard in his briefs at the same time Chan does.

He’s sweating buckets, every muscle in his body is tight, and his dick is officially against Chan’s ass in a way that’s impossible to ignore. What are the chances that Seungcheol will leap in here and throttle him into a coma?

“Hyung.” Chan registers loud and terrifying in the quiet. He tries to look over his shoulder again, but Soonyoung shoves his face away, this time harder than he means to, and Chan lets out a gasp that has his dick leap in ways that are sick, and Soonyoung’s a sick fuck, and Soonyoung’s going to shatter.

He wants to apologize, except he can’t. He doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth, tongue addled with alcohol and weakening resolve, to say _I’m sorry_. So, he keeps his mouth clamped shut, and jerks his hand back to the safety of his own hip.

Chan doesn’t move again. He doesn’t try to speak, either.

Soonyoung is suspended in the air, hanging only by a string that’s gradually thinning out like in those cartoons. He’s a carton character swinging upside down with a string tied to his ankle, and instead of fibers or yarn or whatever string is made out of, it’s a voice reverberating down a hallway. One that’s screaming, _you shouldn’t, you can’t, there are too many things wrong with this scenario. You’re sacrificing your hard work, and his hard work, and if—when—your boss finds out he’ll terminate your contract and out you and then beat you halfway into hell_.

Soonyoung loses himself so deeply into the hypothetical that he doesn’t notice Chan snatching his arm by the wrist and tugging him close, impossibly close, until it’s already over Chan’s waist. For the first time in god knows how long, Soonyoung is shocked into silence. Terrified, honestly. He can’t trust his own mouth, nor his arms, nor his hips as they refuse to move from pressed flush against Chan’s ass.

 _Hyung_ , he hears Chan repeat. It’s a tiny flutter several octaves higher than his normal timbre, haloed in fuzz and moonlight. Slow, drunk.

Chan grinds his hips back. This one has no plausible deniability. Soonyoung lets out an embarrassing, choked grunt that he’ll hate himself for when he isn’t focused on his fear and arousal, his dick following the line of Chan’s crack up to his tailbone before Chan rolls down again. Soonyoung is able to control the grunt this time, bites down on his bottom lip _hard_ , tasing metal and rust.

He tugs his hand away from Chan’s hand, grabs his hip and holds on tight. It’s not nearly enough to prevent Chan from doing that again, but—but that isn’t what Soonyoung is trying to do. The moment Soonyoung heard that third _hyung,_ the rope had been severed, and he’s falling into a canyon. He’s swallowed whole by the dark, the unknown. Ending credits rolling.

Soonyoung needs to speak. This is a decision that requires careful conversation, one that may end up in them not doing this at all— which should be the goal. Regardless, talking is necessary here, and Soonyoung’s the hyung, so he needs to fucking _open his mouth and speak_.

He speaks with grinding his dick against Chan, using his hip as leverage. Chan, a rush of air escaping him, grinds back on the next one, and the friction is _delicious_. Soonyoung whimpers, pressing his forehead to the nape of Chan’s neck. There’s nothing left to hide, nowhere else to go. Soonyoung’s cock has fattened up at a shocking speed, tenting his briefs and lining up against the clothed swell of Chan’s ass, and he’s sweating so bad now. Soonyoung has shattered.

He shoves his other arm up underneath Chan’s waist and holds him there, back to chest, and his grip on Chan’s hip tightens. “Soonyo—“ Chan gasps. His voice breaks into something close to a pant when Soonyoung more or less humps against him.

It’s a gradual build of arousal, bubblegum sweet. Soonyoung pants into the sensitive skin of Chan’s nape, rolling his pelvis with practiced ease, their bodies slotted together so nicely. Like they were made to be a pair, he and Chan, on the dance floor and in the bedroom. And _shit_ , it feels good, despite the two layers of clothing separating him from Chan’s warm skin. Two layers that have to go. They have to go, Soonyoung wants—

“More,” Chan breathes. “More, c’mon, hyu—“ Soonyoung stops only once Chan hooks a thumb under his own briefs and lifts to shove them down mid-thigh. He allows himself a quick glance at Chan’s bare skin, the perfect curve of his ass, before he does the same with his own briefs.

Then they’re skin to skin. They both groan at once, Chan’s head dipping forward, Soonyoung’s hand returning to his hip bone. His _bare_ hipbone. Jesus forgive him. It’s incredible, though, fucking incredible: the fleshy give of Chan’s ass, how mind-blowing it feels just to fuck between each swell, his cock lined up right in the crack. He’s rubbing his own precome into Chan’s skin with every thrust, Chan jostling forward and gasping as if this is actually doing something for him, and it’s as if he’s making a claim. Marking his territory. No one will come close, because they’ll be able to smell Soonyoung on Chan and that’s the only warning they’ll have to fuck off.

It’s a vile, chauvinistic reverie, but Soonyoung can fantasize, can’t he? Everything about this is primitive, from Soonyoung humping against Chan like a virginal schoolboy, to Chan mewling like he’s getting fucked, like Soonyoung is fucking his ass open.

Soonyoung latches onto Chan, more tongue than teeth, and Chan shivers in his arms, voice breaking as he whimpers, “Soonyoung—hyung- _ng_.” He wants to suck a bruise there. There, at the junction of his neck and shoulder, down his throat, between his thighs. It’s an absolutely horrible fucking idea, so he doesn’t and he won’t, but he wants to, bad enough that he groans his own grief, stirring the little hairs at Chan’s nape.

The mattress is expensive, so it doesn’t whine in time with the snap of Soonyoung’s hips, but it does undulate beneath them. Sweat is collecting where their bodies touch, mixing with his precome and giving more slip (as disgusting as it is for Soonyoung to think about), but the friction is still starting to feel a little painful. That, and Soonyoung is sure Chan’s cock is painful, too. From Soonyoung’s vantage point, he doesn’t see Chan trying to relieve himself. One hand is clawing at the grip Soonyoung has on his hip, while the other lies uselessly where he has his face turned into the pillow, fingers curled into the blanket.

The angle is all wrong, but Soonyoung uses the arm tucked underneath Chan to get a hand around his dick. Chan’s body jumps as if touching electricity; he lets out a desperate, “ _Soonyoung_.”

Soonyoung flicks his wrist as best he can, his thrusts losing their rhythm both because he can feel his orgasm teetering, and because he’s losing coherent thought—as coherent as his thoughts can be while actively doing something he will only regret—Chan’s moans unabashed, swirling Soonyoung’s brain into a useless heap of frantic arousal.

Chan comes over his fingers and palm before Soonyoung’s own orgasm snatches him. And he can hear Chan’s muffled whimpers as he screws his eyes shut, mouth falling open on a silent moan. One, two more thrusts and he comes on the small of Chan’s back, across the swell of his asscheeks.

He slumps against him, gasping for breath.

Then it’s a soft chorus of panting. Neither move from where they lie, even as Soonyoung’s arm starts to go numb underneath Chan’s waist. He deserves that, anyway.

Fuck. Shit, shit, _shit_. Soonyoung has made plenty mistakes, but this one may take the cake. He’s going to get outed, he’s going to get his ass beat, he’s going to fumble and knock over his career like a house of cards—and down with it will be his heart, Chan’s heart, _Chan’s_ career.

Lee Sangchul isn’t going to like this. It doesn’t matter how much money Soonyoung makes for the company, how popular he is as a soloist, how many venues he sells out: Sangchul will sacrifice everything to maintain Chan’s spotless public reputation. And he’ll find out somehow, he’ll find out, and Soonyoung... he’s an idiot that’ll deserve everything he gets.

Soonyoung tugs his arm out from underneath Chan. Dirty hand, dirty crotch, doesn’t matter; Soonyoung tucks his softening cock into his briefs and jumps up off of the bed. The world spins for a few seconds before he recalibrates and rushes towards the bathroom.

Chan sits up, turns around to watch. What expression he’s wearing, Soonyoung doesn’t know, because he can’t look anymore. He can’t, he can’t, _he fucked everything up_. “Soonyoung hyung?”

Soonyoung slips in the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.


	3. tell you all that comes to me (Junhui/Chan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If nothing else, Chan is resolute. A cockroach or a gutter rat, except much, much prettier, leaner, and not as small. If he has to be dragged around like a piece of jewelry, has to spread his legs on command so he can wire money back to his family, he’ll do it. If it means his baby brother can afford to attend Seoul Performing Arts. If it means he can lie in a mattress so soft that it swallows him while his husband works; if he can nap underneath a goose-down duvet that has to be experienced completely naked to get a bang for his (Junhui’s) buck. 
> 
> *
> 
> Chan is Junhui's most prized possession, his trophy to take off the shelf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [knjkth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knjkth)  
> Trophy-spouse!Chan and stupidly-rich!Junhui, because I wanted to for the longest time. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and supporting [heart emoji]

Junhui has always been very fastidious since Chan met him, but their ( _ Junhui’s _ ) Shanghai skyrise gives him a new perspective. There are antiques and imports. Nothing but. Somewhere along their history, Junhui told him the men in his family all had an inclination towards rare, one-of-its-kind period pieces; his father owns the business his father gifted him after his death, and the Wen conglomerate specializes in finding and selling Chinese antiques (and Chan uses this word carefully, seeing as Junhui ducks him when he asks how and where they’ve gotten their hands on relics. Relics that should have a rightful place in the Shanghai Museum of Ancient Art).  _ Museum is just another word for thieves _ , was all Junhui offered before changing the subject. 

Maybe it’s in their blood. He doesn’t know. Junhui’s family estate is decorated in pieces expensive enough to own Chan, his parents, his younger brother, and his entire neighborhood all at once—multiplied by two. And Junhui’s grandfather on his father’s side had an eye for shiny, nauseatingly extortionate jewelry, furniture, women. So it’s inevitable that their preferences passed down to Junhui and his brother, Yangyang. 

Each generation stacked a new compulsion on top of the previous. Jewelry, furniture, and women transferred to jewelry, furniture, women, and antiques. All of the above transferred to jewelry, furniture, antiques, imports, and  _ men _ , split between Junhui and Yangyang. 

Junhui keeps his foundation the Chinese period pieces: a master bedroom decorated with porcelain, Ming dynasty statues, dish plates, vases. Early to late Ming dynasty with an occasional Qing dynasty sculpture of a woman meditating, enameled porcelain cups. Then, Junhui branches out, across the country and the entire world, traveling and returning to Shanghai with souvenirs. 

He grew up in Shenzhen, moved to Seoul, South Korea before junior high, then to Japan as an exchange student. Chan has long since forgotten all the intricate details; there’s too many to relay, how Junhui hopped from country to country as if he wanted to come home with a new piece of himself, metaphorically and physically. He carried fluent Korean on his tongue, Japanese relics in his jet, heavyweight, goose-down duvets from Europe. A bite from each. 

The second time he comes to South Korea—now as a man that owns a slice of his father’s conglomerate, that has Korean business partners to charm—Junhui ships back a headpiece chest from the 18th century, an array of pottery built from jade and porcelain, 

and a Korean man eight years his junior, pretty and lean and one-of-a-kind. 

They marry in Taiwan a month after Chan’s move. There’s no denying in what this is: Chan escaping his shitty life in a shitty city, and Junhui purchasing another piece for his collection, this time one he can parade around at business events to look young and gorgeous and stupid; so that his most invaluable possession can stand there, at his side, in a foreign country, surrounded by a foreign language. (It’s taken a year of grief and dedication to learn enough Mandarin to understand and carry conversation. Cantonese, on the other hand, eludes him.) 

If nothing else, Chan is resolute. A cockroach or a gutter rat, except much, much prettier, leaner, and not as small. If he has to be dragged around like a piece of jewelry, has to spread his legs on command so he can wire money back to his family, he’ll do it. If it means his baby brother can afford to attend Seoul Performing Arts. If it means he can lie in a mattress so soft that it swallows him while his husband works; if he can nap underneath a goose-down duvet that  _ has _ to be experienced completely naked to get a bang for his (Junhui’s) buck. 

That’s what Junhui comes home to. A skyrise tall enough to rip through clouds like a scalpel, stocked with enough decorations to purchase all of South Korea. And there’s Chan in the master bedroom, naked, prone, and the duvet draped just over the small of his back. He’s not asleep anymore, but his body feels sluggish and heavy as he blinks, tips his head towards the door to watch Junhui tugging harshly at his tie. Now three years in, Chan can see Junhui’s anger no matter how hard he tries to mask it. 

Not like Junhui bothers to mask his anger from Chan. 

Junhui is down to his white button-down and black slacks, coat most likely forgotten on the couch like he always does. Lazy fucker, never fazed by Chan’s nagging and insistence that coats go in the foyer closet.  _ That’s what it’s there for _ , Chan had whined only yesterday. But, an upset Junhui is a special brand of handsome. With his ink-black hair disheveled and jaw and cheekbones made impossibly sharp as he gnaws his teeth together, Junhui tugs the tie off like it offends him and disappears in the walk-in wardrobe. 

Chan yawns, then waits for him to return to the bedroom before he flops an arm out. (Junhui loves it when he’s wearing nothing but the ring, says it’s sexy, but Chan isn’t an idiot: it’s sexy to him because it’s a symbol of possession, stripping down to the one thing that ties Chan to him). 

And another thing that never fails to cheer Junhui up: “ _ Jùnjùn, _ ” Chan says, slow with sleep, “ _ Zěnme le _ ?” 

Junhui rummages through the vanity drawers, pulling out silk loungewear. “Take a guess,” he deadpans. “I’ll give you two tries.” The force of his grab flings his pants far enough away that Junhui is going to have to move from his spot to pick it up. He sighs his frustration and fusses with his hair instead. 

“ _ Láiba _ ,” Chan coos, “ _ Ràng nǐ de zhàngfū bāngzhù nǐ, hǎo ma? _ ” 

After an extra moment of stewing in his self-pity, Junhui relents and walks over to the bedside. Chan curls his fingers in and stretches them out a few times, his fingernails scraping down Junhui’s slacks. 

“Sit,” Chan says. 

“With my clothes?” Junhui asks incredulously. “Where’s my Lee Chan, and what have you done with him?” 

Chan rolls his eyes. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be. Siddown.”

Junhui teases some more — typical fucking Wen Junhui behavior when he’s not having the joy sucked out of him by his family — and then sits. 

Chan sits up, awkwardly scoots over to Junhui’s side before draping himself over his back. The duvet pools right over his groin. He plants a kiss on Junhui’s jaw, underneath his ear, and then another where his jaw meets his throat. Junhui lifts an arm behind and around Chan’s middle, flattens his palm out over his navel. And Chan is already warm from snoozing in their bed all day, but Juhui is warmth and agarwood cologne combined; a tease of cedar and patchouli clings to his button-down. 

Sometimes Chan forgets that he isn’t supposed to be in love with him. When Junhui is gone and Chan ambles around the apartment alone, it hits him that he’s nothing but a trophy, a young,  _ imported _ piece that blends in with all of Junhui’s other imported goods. And whenever Junhui pulls on crocodile skin derbies —custom made during their vacation in Milan—Chan’s heart sits all wrong in the cavity, because. Much like an invaluable pair of shoes, Chan embellishes Junhui’s person. Anytime he wants him to, whenever he wants him. 

Then Junhui is home, maybe with roasted duck from  _ Jin Xuan _ , maybe a necklace draped in gold and eighteen carat diamonds, and Chan doesn’t even fucking want the food or the jewelry. He just wants Junhui to embrace him at the foyer like he always does, carry him to the living room or the balcony to tell him about his day in between kisses. 

(Who the fuck falls in love with a sybarite that’s nothing more than his upbringing, except with a homosexual twist?)

(But—is that all Junhui is? Sometimes it’s so easy to forget to not fall in love, because Junhui the Person, not the Asshole Tycoon that everyone projects him to be, is sweet. Sweet, silly, with an endearing laugh that stretches his mouth out too wide. Junhui holds and kisses him like he feels it, too.) 

Chan, now with a better angle to see Junhui’s face, tips his head back to look at him. “Talk to me.” 

And then there’s these moments. Junhui with Chan is Junhui that’s allowed to show emotion. He’s hollow anywhere else. Chan wonders if his constant traveling, living in a new country or city throughout his childhood, was his means of escape. If having all the feeling beaten out of him left him with no choice but to fill in the gap — a piece of Tokyo, Seoul, Milan stitched into one part of him, Stockholm and Mixco in another. Substituting love with possessions, as if one day it’ll be enough. He’ll be enough. 

Junhui’s stress piles high, a scalpel slicing through the sky, and out through the incision comes his afflictions. Copious, thick, and his voice has no choice but to carry it. And his Korean is weighed down until it’s wavering and the pronunciation goes sloppy.

But even as Junhui’s words become unintelligible, Chan sits and listens. Junhui starts speaking fast Mandarin, way too quick and complicated for Chan to decipher, and it doesn’t seem as if he realizes he’s switched languages. Chan still listents. He rolls the tension out from between Junhui’s eyebrows with his fingers, tracing nonsense over Junhui’s stress lines, his cheekbones and slope of his nose, across his lips with a thumb. 

Junhui expels his stress through speaking. Chan’s had three years to learn him. And it may take the rest of the evening, may continue on into the following day, but eventually Junhui’s words will stop wavering beneath the pressure. 

Chan has also spent three years learning this. Junhui can try to run to any crevice of the world, try to build himself a new personality in hopes that it’ll shape him to his family’s mold , but the stress—and that waver, too—can only be dispelled in a Shanghai skyscraper, with his most prized possession. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Chan says, in the order he says it:   
> \- Jun (cutesy nickname), what's wrong/what happened?   
> \- Come, let me help you, okay?


	4. frozen in time (Chan/Mingyu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes even soulmates aren’t meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There shouldn't be any triggers in this drabble. I had to rid to my mind of gyuchan for the time being.

Mingyu doesn’t erase the pictures. None of them. They’re all either saved on his hard drive, taking up space in his phone, or resting in the plastic sleeves of his many photo albums. Probably weird or creepy, but Mingyu isn’t in the business of erasing any of his work, no matter what sort of implications or bad memories they bring about. That’s three, four years of work down the drain if he does, and, looking at it purely from an artistic standpoint, they’re gorgeous. He even had the privilege of presenting one of them at an art show two years prior. Sure, Chan was with him then, and, sure, he’d gotten Chan’s explicit consent to submit it. But Chan is an artist himself; he has to understand that this isn’t something feasible.

After weeks of deliberation, Mingyu had decided to keep it simple, naming the photograph, _my room_. He hasn’t moved out since its conception. Everyday after work he swings open his bedroom door, looks up, and he sees it: the room shrouded in darkness, Chan’s silhouette illuminated by moonlight and street lamps that filter in through his sheer curtains. And Chan’s naked, stripped clean, wearing only a smatter of light that plays across his face, throat, shoulders as he stands there. Below the waist, it’s too dark to see how his cock hangs between his legs, soft after sex.

That brings attention to the smudges of violet on the side of his throat, in the junction of his neck. Smaller splotches of violet color his collarbone, leading across until the light is gone and they’re hidden in black. One eye glows chestnut brown.

Then, the photo’s true subject: a thin, red line draws a circle around the joint of Chan’s shoulder, like a tattoo nothing can obscure. Not even the litany of bruises.

Mingyu has so many of them, pictures, of Chan in hundreds of different places, in many states of undress, some compromising, some innocent. This is the only way Mingyu can contain him— pictures. Otherwise, Chan is a wildfire, spreading further and further out until only a miracle can stop him. It’s not easy to douse, that kind of ambition, independence.

Not everyone finds their soulmate. Some die before they ever have the opportunity to; most pass one another by without noticing that they carry the same red line in the same spot on their skin. And, sometimes, even soulmates aren’t meant to be. That’s the one excuse Mingyu has used ad nauseam, an _I’m lucky to have found you. I can’t lose you now._

Downright evil. Mingyu can pretend it isn’t, but it is. Chan always pulls that face when Mingyu blurts it in tears. That expression, like Mingyu had swung a fist into his nose, or shoved him against a wall, or had threatened to harm him. _Look what you made me do_ , Mingyu might as well have said. Chan always stands there conflicted, guilt and angry shards of the glass Mingyu had broken.

What did being soulmates mean, if some aren’t meant to be? On a fundamental level, Mingyu can’t give Chan what he needs, and nor can Chan him. They’re both unabashedly blunt, but in ways that clash rather than complement. Chan spits fire, and Mingyu freezes everything around him. Chan leaves homes in ruin; Mingyu leaves wildlife to die. Two very different types of destructive and shameless.

“You want me locked up in a cage,” Chan accuses. They’re in the living room alone. Seungcheol had retreated to his room the moment he heard them arguing. And Chan’s fully dressed in a tee shirt and jeans while Mingyu stands there in sleep pants.

“I want you to want me,” Mingyu says. Tears well in his eyes albeit he blinks them away. 

“I want you—“

“To need me, then.”

Chan flounders, eyebrows high on his forehead and eyes wide with exasperation. The air stills between them. Mingyu pointedly says nothing, instead opting to stand there, near the hall leading to their room, and watch Chan struggle to capture words.

Finally, “Mingyu,” Chan answers carefully, as if trying to sedate him, “no one should need anyone. I don’t understand why this isn’t enough for you.”

The fucked part is that nothing is ever enough. Mingyu wants and wants and wants, insatiable even as Chan secedes more of himself each dispute. Because, without fail, Chan snatches it back, and then Mingyu has nothing but flimsy words and an empty bed. Nothing but his collection of pictures. The only way Chan can’t escape.

Chan stays home with him this night. He knows this is a success that won’t last until morning, but at this point he’ll take whatever he can get— and that’s Chan in their bed, fingers stroking Mingyu’s hair as Mingyu nuzzles against his jaw and whimpers.

“Mingyu,” Chan sighs, burdened yet endeared. He scratches at the crown of his head, and Mingyu whimpers again. His larger body is thrown more than halfway atop of Chan’s, the sheets splayed over their bare skin.

Mingyu puckers his lips and kisses wherever it reaches. Chan’s cheek, down his jaw, his throat. “Only need you,” he whispers to his skin. Chan shivers beneath him.

“You’re sick in the head.”

“Love makes me sick,” he mumbles in return.

It isn’t that simple. Not love, nor soulmates. It isn’t an easy fix, placating himself with pictures in his loneliest moments. _My room_ may be hanging up at some art gallery somewhere, but Mingyu has so, so much more: Chan with a mouthful of stew in his mouth, Chan smiling warmly out at Busan’s ocean, Chan fucked out in bliss, half-asleep on their mattress. Chan, Chan, Chan. The soulmate he’s lucky to have found.

Chan will be gone in the morning. Despite the constant song and dance, despite burning it all to the ground, Chan has been living somewhere else since last year. Mingyu’s love is frozen in time.


	5. this is what we want (Chan/Seungcheol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this what separation anxiety feels like? Seungcheol was terrified of this. Falling too hard, too fast, for a rockstar that everyone falls too hard and fast for. Chan is charm personified, so unabashedly himself that you can’t help but be drawn to him. The very moment Chan pressed a hand to the crook of his elbow in that stupid house party Seungcheol knew he was shit out of luck. Chan can have anybody he wants—but he wants Seungcheol. Surreal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an extension of my [rockstar!Chan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25180732) AU, but in Seungcheol's POV. It was written for a sensory prompt meme going around on twitter. You don't really need to read where it's based on to understand the premise of their relationship.

Chan has been performing at venues several hours away, in Busan, and Seungcheol is beginning to feel that dull throb that he hates so much. It’s irrational, is what it is. When Seungcheol accepted exclusivity, he already knew Lee Chan and Long Distance came as a two-for-one packaged deal. He and his band are fucking incredible, and the rest of South Korea is beginning to notice this. It’s everything Seungcheol has wanted for Chan from the moment he told him he was starting a band. It’s all Chan has wanted since he was a teenager working in a dance studio, sneaking out to brainstorm with his ‘delinquent friends’—  _ that’s what my dad loved to call Hyejin noona and her boyfriend _ , Chan had told him one day, when he’d spent the night—and try to make their dreams come true. 

And they came true. So Seungcheol needs to keep being happy for him, and his chest needs to stop throbbing whenever he glances over at the spot beside him where Chan likes to sleep, or whenever his phone buzzes and  _ Otter [Heart emoji] _ pops up on his screen. 

_ This is what we want, this is what we want, this is what we wan _ t. He repeats it inside of his head in hopes that eventually he’ll be hypnotized to believe it. Repeats it through his daily routine of lectures, assignments, lunch and dinner with his friends, tutoring sessions with baby engineering majors. 

But it’s not fucking working. Shit. Is this what separation anxiety feels like? Seungcheol was terrified of this. Falling too hard, too fast, for a rockstar that  _ everyone _ falls too hard and fast for. Chan is charm personified, so unabashedly himself that you can’t help but be drawn to him. The very moment Chan pressed a hand to the crook of his elbow in that stupid house party Seungcheol knew he was shit out of luck. Chan can have anybody he wants—but he wants Seungcheol. Surreal. 

He’s going insane, maybe. Joshua says so. Says that Seungcheol has gone from one extreme—ducking Chan in a fit of fear and self-loathing— to another: spending every waking moment with Chan that he can get until Chan has to practice with his bandmates or go perform in faraway cities. But, can you blame him? Chan is insatiable. In lecture halls, house parties,  _ at restaurants with friends _ , Chan drapes all over Seungcheol, begging for his cock, begging to be smacked and choked and for Seungcheol to have his way with him. 

The day before Chan left for Busan, he spent the night with Seungcheol. He’d practically bullied Seungcheol out of his jeans and dropped to his knees to suck him off. Then, he lied on Seungcheol’s bed and, with his stupidly sexy hoarse voice, whined, “Fuck me, hyung. Please, fuck me, I need you—” 

Who was Seungcheol to say no? He loses himself in Chan every time.  _ Every time _ . It’s like Chan hypnotizes him when he talks dirty, has him doing things he never thought he’d do, has never done with boyfriends or girlfriends before. 

Seungcheol was balls deep, pelvis flush to Chan’s asscheeks, rocking into Chan as Chan fucked his own cock up against Seungcheol’s belly and moaned, “Bite me, hyung, please— _ ahh _ , bite me, wanna remember this, wanna remember wuh—when I’m alone in m’hote—” Seungcheol had bitten him. Smacked the inside of his thighs until it burned a violent red and Chan was shaking through his orgasm, crying and clawing at Seungcheol’s shoulder blades and  _ insatiable _ . 

Big mistake. Chan sends him pictures of the bruises, where his teeth had sunk into him and drawn little drops of blood. Texts him,  _ feels so good when I’m fingering myself while touching them. hurts so good. reminds me of you. miss you. _

And—that’s hot. No fucking doubt about it. But Seungcheol has stupid emotions, and his stupid chest is throbbing. And he lies, alone, on his bed with a confused boner as he stares at the text messages and the picture. He wants to jerk off, but he also kinda wants to cry, too. Chan’s bruises hurt, and Seungcheol’s do, too. A tender ache that Chan presses into with every phone call, every  _ miss you _ . 


	6. doctor jeon wonwoo (wonwoo/jihoon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m a slave to my emotions sometimes, even when I think I’m old enough to know better.” He sighs and leans his head back against the headrest. “You were difficult to avoid.” 
> 
> Jihoon glances at him, at the long stretch of his neck and the jut of his jaw. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” he repeats, but softer. “Don’t avoid me after tonight.” 
> 
> “I won’t. That won’t reverse anything I’ve done.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a WIP i wrote a few months ago that i dropped; but there's plenty here (50 pages) that i figured it'd be a waste to just let it sit and rot in the dungeon (AKA, my google docs). 
> 
> so here is a med student jihoon/doctor wonwoo fic! i read up on the medical school process in south korea, and from there used my own experiences in grad school. hope you enjoy.

_For our hardworking son. Congratulations to moving on to your fourth year. Don’t forget about us!_

Jihoon digs through the rest of the package to find souvenirs and trinkets that his parents sent to him from Japan - his favorite comic books wrapped in plastic, a sakura flower keychain, a samurai plushie holding a plastic sword, and an album of pictures his older brother took of the city, beaches, and countryside. It’s the third, annual family vacation that he’s had to miss out on since enrolling in medical school, and the third year he’s been forced to live vicariously through them.

“ _Gangsta_? Sweet,” Minghao cheers from over his shoulder. He picks up one of the volumes, flips it over to read the back. “It’s in Japanese.” 

“Duh,” Jihoon says, snatching the manga back from him. “It’s from Japan, idiot.” 

“I just thought maybe they’d get you the translated versions, or something,” Minghao, not getting the hint, begins to pick up the other gifts from the package and fiddles with them. “Isn’t this keychain a little too, like. Not you?” 

“Don’t you have an exam to study for?” 

Minghao bristles. “Touché.” 

Jihoon carefully slides the unwrapped books onto his bookshelf, on the bottom shelf where all his other comics are. It’s beginning to get too crowded for them on the shelf, but the other rows are occupied with medical textbooks, notebooks, and binders full of notes from the previous three years. Month by month, he’s had to rehome them and replace their spot with school-related literature, a symbolism of his lost childhood - and leisure time - that depresses him when he lets himself think too hard about it. The reality is that he’s 21 now. Sure, he had more free time when he was in high school and spending eight hours studying daily instead of the ten to twelve that he’s pulling now. But that doesn’t erase the fact that his formative years had been full of nothing but trying to cram time for hobbies in the tiny spaces that preparing to be a medical doctor left. 

Those days are well behind him. Being a fourth year means it’s time to buckle down and learn clinical medicine. The first three years were like a cake walk in comparison to what the program is going to pile onto him now - Dr. Yoon said as such at the end of third year - and this means Jihoon truly has to abandon the idea that he’ll ever have time to read _Gangsta_ all over again, this time using his mediocre Japanese skills. He won’t have time to read anything other than the assigned literature, let only sleep, eat, or breathe. 

It’s not _completely_ doomsday, though. He happens to very much enjoy medicine, something that seems quite rare when he bothers to broaden his horizons and talk to his classmates. His parents thought he’d pursue something in music and were pleasantly surprised to find that he wanted to be a doctor instead. It was his older brother that went into the arts. The surprises continued to occur when he actually got accepted into a science high school, and then when he applied and was subsequently accepted to SNU’s medical program. The years began to blend into each other as the workload never seemed to stop, Dr. Yoon warned his class of the rigors of fourth year - and now he’s three days into said fourth year and sitting in his bedroom, staring at an open package sent from Japan. 

“I’ll email you the outline when I’m done with the chapter,” Minghao is saying to him while getting to his feet. “And don’t forget to read that cardiology article Dr. Jeon sent us. I heard from Eun that there’s a chance we’ll be quizzed on it.” 

Jihoon lifts the last item in the package, the photo album, and closes the box. “We haven’t even had a _single_ lecture from him yet,” he groans. “I refuse to take a quiz from a man that I haven’t seen.”

Minghao titters. “I dare you to say that to his face tomorrow morning.” He sets the keychain on Jihoon’s crowded study table on his way out of the bedroom. “Bet you won’t.” 

“You’re right,” Jihoon calls after him, laughing. Might as well go ahead and get on that now, since it’s Minghao’s turn to read and take notes. He pushes the box to a corner of his room, with his other trash that’s well overdue to be thrown away, and then returns to his spot at his desk. Perching his laptop precariously on top of his Fundamentals of Clinical Medicine textbook and assorted papers, he opens the email Dr. Jeon sent them earlier that afternoon. 

_Good afternoon_ , it reads. _It is a pleasure to finally speak to you all. As you can see from your syllabi, this will be far from the last time you will hear from me. I will be lecturing you for the following three years, albeit it will be sparse in your sixth year. I am an SNU alumni, so take solace in the fact that I was once in the exact same place that you are today. Despite wanting to work in pediatrics upon matriculation into the program, I fell in love with cardiology during my rotation at SNU Hospital and was offered a residency opportunity after graduation. After residency, I worked there for three years, discovered a new passion for teaching, and went back to school to do just that. I have been a professor for three years, and I enjoy it thoroughly._

_But enough about me. Attached is an article I co-wrote concerning new advancements in cardiology medicine and diagnostic methods published as recent as this month. I heavily implore you to read it and take notes, as your knowledge will help to carry the lecture tomorrow. I am excited to see all of you and put faces to names. Please email me at anytime if you have questions or concerns._

_Thanks again, Dr. Jeon Wonwoo._

The attached article is a ten-page synopsis of peer-reviewed research, the first half titled _Thiazides Could Now be 1st line for Hypertension_ and the second half titled _Early Surgery Indicated for Asymptomatic Aortic Stenosis_. Jihoon skims each half, then scrolls back up to the first page. True to his word, Dr. Jeon’s name is listed in a sea of other names, each with their own laundry list of titles. PhDs, mostly. This will have to be done after his review of the day’s lectures; it’s mentally filed at the bottom of his list of importance. 

Jihoon has heard a few rumors about Dr. Jeon already. His mentor, Beom-ju, and a few upperclassmen had relayed the message that Dr. Jeon is stupidly passionate about cardiology and the work that he does in the medical program. His quizzes are difficult, and his exams are even more so. He allegedly believes a score below an 85 means the student has a poor grasp of the concept and requires remediation, something he personally holds. Jihoon heeds the warnings from the upperclassmen whenever they’re given but prefers to come to his own conclusions. And, besides, he enjoys cardiology - what he’s learned about that body system so far, that is. 

So he’ll worry about it when the time comes. Jihoon closes his laptop and returns to his Basics of Physical Examination outline. 

In true Minghao fashion, as soon as he sees Junhui in the hallway - one of the only other Chinese students in the class - he glides away from Jihoon’s side and begins shouting at him in Mandarin. Jihoon knew from the beginning of their rooming together that Minghao’s first language wasn’t Korean, but he sometimes still has difficulty processing the fact that he’s fluent in multiple languages, especially since the only time he hears Minghao speak another one is when he’s with Junhui. 

But it’s too early in the morning for conversation. The lecture hall is already bustling with seventy of his classmates when he turns in, the chorus of voices carrying up the rows of seats. He takes his usual spot near the middle, a few seats close to the stairs for whenever it’s time to make a quick departure or to take a break. Setting his steel thermos of coffee onto the desk in front of him, Jihoon begins to unpack his laptop, pencils, and notebooks, the spots surrounding him becoming occupied with the stragglers while he does so. 

There are a lot of social politics to medical school that Jihoon had never considered before matriculating. Where you sit (because you may be stuck there for the rest of your student career), who you choose (or not) to speak to (surprise, surprise: type A geeks are emotionally fragile and filled to the brim with resentment), how much or how often you share your notes with others (see: type As and their emotional fragility). And Jihoon has never been the most social person nor the most vocal in class, so his seating decision was not taken lightly; it’s positioned as to not look like he’s intentionally trying to blend into the sea of faces, but close enough so that he doesn’t look like a slacker or an overachiever. Just a regular, everyday student trying to earn his degree. An inbetween-er. 

Minghao and Jun settle into their respective seats in the second row, closer to the windows on the left. Jihoon is logging into his student portal when his seatmate, Jung-hyun arrives to her spot on his right, breakfast sandwich, latte, and phone teetering in one hand, books and laptop in the other. “I made it,” she cheers to him, sounding breathless and frazzled. “I forgot to set my alarm last night and fell asleep at my desk.” 

Jihoon takes a quick glance at the digital clock on the upper right corner of his screen. 7:58A.M. “Two minutes to spare,” he playfully clicks his tongue at her. “Only rookies don’t set their phone alarm to go off at the same time every morning.” 

Jung-hyun makes a whining noise, plopping herself down into her chair with a huff. “It’s only the first week of class, okay? Wait until week 3 to bully me!” She opens her laptop and uses the black screen as a faux mirror, fingers her bangs. “I didn’t have time to curl my hair. I hate me,” she mumbles, mostly to herself. Jihoon pretends to be very occupied with the new content uploaded to the Clinical Medicine 1 folder on the student portal, takes infrequent glances at Jung-hyun from his periphery. He doesn’t notice when his left-side seatmate, Seungkwan, arrives at 8:00AM on the dot. 

When Jihoon and Jung-hyun first met, they spent the first year flirting - then the second year either studying together or hooking up. Then, a mutual decision to remain friends reverted their relationship back to harmless flirting and the occasional study dates. She was the third girl - and the prettiest, in Jihoon’s honest opinion - that he ever had the experience of having. “You’re the second,” she’d admitted with a shy giggle once, while sprawled out naked on his bed, ink black hair a halo around her white face. He made a conscious decision to not tell her that she was the first girl he’d been with that he wasn’t already dating. 

Seungkwan, the nosy, insistent brat that he is, caught on to their chemistry the earliest, even before Minghao, and seems to have made a commitment since year 1 to never let Jihoon nor Jung-hyun live it down. Any laughter or physical contact, however harmless or brief, is always met with a knowing stare and smirk from Jihoon’s left. The stare and smirk he is currently shooting their way. Jihoon has mastered his poker face. 

The chorus of voices begin to trickle off when what appears to be the professor steps into the lecture hall and closes the door behind him. He’s tall and very thin - and looks quite young for a doctor. His dark hair has gentle waves to it, long fringe held out of his line of vision by the circle lenses of his glasses. He ambles slowly across the front of the classroom and to his podium, one hand in his trench coat pocket, the other holding a briefcase. 

Definitely the professor. The room falls silent. Jihoon takes in the lecturer’s - Dr. Jeon, no doubt - black turtleneck sweater and slacks, camel trench coat, brown oxfords. Well, one rumor that’s been passed down from the upperclassmen is true: Dr. Jeon is handsome. And looks like he’s fashionable on accident, or without effort. Beom-ji had bitterly recalled to Jihoon that a lot of the women in his class wouldn’t stop gushing about Dr. Jeon’s ‘striking looks’. It was one of the rumors that Jihoon let in one ear and directly out the other, as it wasn’t (and _isn’t_ ) pertinent to his progress in the class. 

He takes a sideways glance at Jung-hyun. She hasn’t moved a centimeter since Dr. Jeon walked in the room. Fantastic. 

Only when Dr. Jeon gets the microphone on and pinned to his turtleneck and the projector running on the opening slide of his cardiology lecture does he look up at the rows of silent students. “Good morning,” he says. His deep voice reverberates through the speakers. 

_Some people have all the luck_. Height, looks, and a masculine voice to boot. If Jihoon wasn’t currently so intimidated, he’d be jealous. 

“I hope you all read the email I sent yesterday. I’m Dr. Jeon Wonwoo. I don’t want to waste any class time introducing myself since I already did that in the email, so if you’re interested in learning more about myself, please don’t hesitate to visit me in my office; that will also help me learn all of your names. It’s here in the health professions building, room 302A. The syllabus has all my contact information.” He presses a button on his clicker, and the intro slide changes to a screenshot of the article they were assigned to read. “Let’s move on. Thiazides as an initial treatment for hypertension. Can anyone explain why hypertension is related to the heart?”

Straight to the point. It’s the shortest introduction Jihoon has heard from a lecturer in years. Another passed down rumor that’s confirmed: Dr. Jeon is no-nonsense. He watches as several hands fly up into the air - the usual know it alls that he’s grown accustomed to - and listens as Dr. Jeon picks one of them to speak. “Hypertension affects your blood pressure,” Kyla, Korean-American Know it All #1, says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “When your blood pressure is too high for too long, your arteries harden and blood flow to your heart decreases.” 

Dr. Jeon nods, face remaining as blank as it was when he first walked into the room. “What is your name?” 

“Kyla,” Kyla says with a grin. 

“OK, Kyla. That’s a part of it, yes. And what is the term for when your arteries harden?” 

“Atherosclerosis,” she answers. 

Dr. Jeon blankly nods again, then scans the rest of the class. “Let’s keep going with that train of thought. If chronic hypertension can lead to atherosclerosis, how does this relate to the heart?” 

The song and dance proceeds with each Know it All raising their hand and being called on to answer the question, Dr. Jeon asking their name, and then pressing for more and more specifics until the conclusion is met. After, he covers the method of action of thiazides - a commonly prescribed diuretic for hypertension - drawing a diagram on the touchscreen of the computer to project his thought process onto the big screen. The two-hour lecture, as promised, is led and carried by Jihoon’s classmates, the first hour spent on the article and the second hour covering as much as they can of the powerpoint Dr. Jeon prepared. 

When 10:00AM rolls around, the first couple of pages of Jihoon’s notebook is filled with imitations of Dr. Jeon’s diagrams. “I know we covered a lot today,” he’s saying as the class begins to pack up. “Read your textbooks tonight for extra context and come back tomorrow with questions. Have a good rest of your morning.” 

Everyone says _thank you_ at once, and then the chorus of voices pick back up to where it was before 8:00AM came. 

“My head is spinning,” Jung-hyun says while packing. “The past two days were like a trial run, or a dream, or something. I feel bamboozled. Give me my hopes and dreams back.” 

“That was only one lecture,” Seungkwan turns to them, looking dazed. “One. I spaced out for thirty seconds _at most_ and missed probably five possible test questions.” 

Jihoon chuckles. “Don’t space out, then.” He zips up his backpack, sliding it onto his back. 

“Wow, thanks for that. I totally didn’t think of that one.” Seungkwan raises a fist and mimes punching Jihoon in the shoulder, and Jihoon ducks away and giggles. “Asshole.” 

Jung-hyun gathers her own things and stands up. “I have to use this hour break to study. I already feel behind.” She pats Jihoon and Seungkwan on the backs as she squeezes past them and to the stairs. “Bye!” 

“Bye,” Jihoon says. 

“Bye,” Seungkwan calls after her, then turns back to Jihoon. “I think I’m gonna have to, too. Do you mind sending me the notes you wrote? I want to compare with yours to see the five-hundred fucking test questions I missed daydreaming.” 

“I’ll text you.” 

“You’re the best. I take back what I said about you being an asshole.” Seungkwan blows a kiss at him, eliciting another laugh. “Okay, bye!” he parrots Jung-hyun’s soft voice before sliding his way into a group of classmates walking down the stairs, belongings clutched to his chest. 

Jihoon turns to face the podium, watches a line of Know it Alls form in front of the professor, each overeager to make an impression. He was reluctant to admit it to either of them, but that’s the most engaged and interested he’s been in a lecture in a long time. Not just because he enjoys cardiology, but also because Dr. Jeon is thorough and meticulous, his knowledge on each topic clear as day. 120 minutes felt more like 30, and before Jihoon knew it, everyone around him was saying _thank you_ and leaving. 

He wants to say something. Shocking, he knows. It’s shocking even to him, the man that chose his seat precisely to secure his title as the Inbetween-er. And he’s never really spoken to his professors or guest lecturers before; if there’s something he needs further context for or doesn’t understand, he’ll ask his brilliant roommate Minghao or google it. Human interaction is dicey. But none of that erases the fact that he feels inclined, for once, to make himself known to Dr. Jeon. He’s telling himself it’s primarily because he’s worked in the field that Jihoon carries interest in (because what other reason could there be?). 

Minghao throws a peace sign at Jihoon on his way out, Junhui at his heels. Jihoon gives a nod of acknowledgment back. Soon, the lecture hall is empty, save for Jihoon and Know it All #1, #2, and #3. The other Know it Alls have had their fun. He takes his time stepping down to the podium, just as KiA #1 thanks Dr. Jeon for his time, bows, and walks away with her friends. 

“We’ll cover it more in depth next week, but I like to think of stenosis and regurgitation as a hallway,” the professor is explaining. “Maybe in a normal hallway, 100 people can walk down in two, single-file lines with no issues. But, if that hallway is narrowed, it’s more difficult for those same 100 people to walk down. Maybe now only 50 can pass at one time, and the other 50 have to wait back in the room. That’s a very juvenile, crash-course way to explain stenosis. Like I said, we’ll cover it further and more - well - scientifically. In regurg . . .” 

It takes ten more minutes of awkward standing, but finally KiA #3 closes off with making promises to come to Dr. Jeon’s office hours to discuss the differences between the classes of antiarrhythmic drugs, jogs to meet someone out in the hall - and that leaves Jihoon. Dr. Jeon is packing his materials into the briefcase as he says, deep voice still somehow vibrating even without the microphone clipped to his turtleneck, “Name?” 

“Lee Jihoon.” 

Dr. Jeon takes a quick glance at him, then returns to packing. “Lee Jihoon,” he parrots. “What can I do for you?” 

Suddenly nervous, Jihoon blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “I - um - am also considering cardiology.” 

Another glance, this time slightly longer than the last. “I’m happy to hear that.” Very monotone. Okay. The nerves are picking up. 

“You, uh. You said you wanted to specialize in pediatrics before your rotations. In your email. Have you ever regretted choosing cardiology over peds?” 

Dr. Jeon taps a button to pull the projector up, and then pauses to consider Jihoon. Their difference in height is more startling up close, where Jihoon can’t hide his short stature with sitting down or standing further away. Not only their height, but their size; while Jihoon is wider and more filled in, Jeon is narrow and slight. His coat and sweater should give him the appearance of a fuller form, but somehow it achieves the exact opposite. It makes him look smaller. And Jihoon’s oversized, grey sweatshirt makes him look stockier in contrast. 

“It’s normal to have doubts,” Jeon starts. “When you specialize, you’re essentially stuck with it, unless you go back through another 2, 4-year residency. I had doubts - certainly. During my residency I had doubts about once or twice a month.” 

The change of expression on Jihoon’s face must not have been subtle, because Jeon cracks a smile and chuckles. “I think no matter what direction you choose to go - even if it has been your dream since you were in grade school - you’re going to have doubts. But, when I decided to not specialize in pediatrics, I knew I couldn’t live my life wondering _what if?_ You know? Cardiology just drew me in in ways pediatrics didn’t. I adore children. Want to have some of my own one day. That’s how I knew I couldn’t do it.” 

“Why?” 

Jeon’s smile turns wry. “I had to watch sick kids suffer and die during my rotation. It was something I hadn’t experienced before then. I’ve seen people die when I worked in the hospital, and of course no matter the age it’s painful. But watching little ones, that never even had the chance to live to their full potential, die and not being able to do anything to stop it? It tore me down. Then I started my cardiology rotation, and I found my calling.” 

Jihoon nods, slowly. “Oh.” 

“That’s not to say I don’t care if adults pass. Just that, for me _personally_ , I couldn’t mentally handle working with sick kids.” Jeon ducks his head and chuckles again, mostly to himself. “Made me feel naïve for ever thinking I could do it.” 

“I don’t think that’s naïvety. Anyone that decides to work in pediatrics loves kids. I think. Like. I think the difference is that you took each death personally?” 

When Jeon looks at him again, expression tight and unreadable, Jihoon starts to panic. Fuck. Was that rude? It’s definitely rude to talk to a professor - let alone a _doctor_ \- so casually like that. He spoke without thinking about it, once again blurting the first thing that came to mind. He’s got to stop fucking doing that. “Um,” he stammers, face burning in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I spoke out of turn, I know -” 

Jeon waves him off with a laugh. “No, it’s okay. I know what you mean. I think you’re right.” 

Jihoon stares at him, mouth agape on a fallen sentence. 

“When you have parents begging you to save their child, it hurts worse when they die. Because, even if you know it’s inevitable, they don’t. All they know is that their kid is dead, and you failed them.” Jeon shrugs. “I did take each death personally. Even with my preceptor there to take the fall for me.” 

Silence. There is nothing else left to say, really. Jihoon closes his mouth and looks away, eye contact suddenly feeling too heavy. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” Jeon grabs Jihoon’s shoulder, squeezes and gives a shake. “I got too dark. I apologize. Come by during my office hours and let’s talk a little bit more about your interest in cardiology. You may find another specialty you like more when you begin rotations, but if I can give you deeper perspective I’ll be more than happy to.” 

His palm is large and warm. Jihoon meets his gaze again, lips pulling into a smile. “Sounds good, um. Doctor.” 

The rumors definitely aren’t just that - rumors. Jeon is handsome even up close. More so than from a distance. Jaw sharp, nose straight and ending on a point, not a single blemish on his face. And he smells like sandalwood cologne, something expensive, Jihoon’s sure. Tall, smart, handsome, rich, in a highly-regarded career; it should be illegal to have it all. 

Idiot. He’s staring. Like an awestruck fan. There’s an awkward silence and he’s _staring_ . But, if he’s staring in silence, so is Jeon. Staring down at him while he’s staring up, neck slightly craning back. He’s not sure if he should say something. Dismiss himself, or thank the doctor for his time, or if it’s more polite to wait for the doctor to dismiss _him_ , or what. 

His head is still spinning with possibilities when Jeon removes his palm and takes a short step back, clearing his throat. Picking up his briefcase, he says, “Great,” his voice cracks. Or maybe Jihoon is hearing things. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” 

“Thank you,” Jihoon says, dumbly. He bows his head, continues to stand there as Jeon moves around him and does the same slow walk towards the door that he did when he first came into the classroom. 

Lectures finish at 5:00PM. The gaps in between each class are spent studying and playing catch up. Minghao texts Jihoon an invitation to go eat sushi with the friends that Jihoon has secretly dubbed as The Chinese Squad - Junhui (of course), Jieqiong and Zhou Mi from the business department, and Cheng Xiao from the music department. The evening is spent trying to navigate a conversation that’s spoken in two different languages, Jihoon intermittently jotting down chinese words that Minghao shows him how to write, to add to his growing flashcard list. Three years of being the token Korean in The Chinese Squad has made Jihoon a beginner Mandarin speaker. 

“You had to miss the Japan trip again?” Cheng Xiao asks Jihoon. She’s sitting across from him at the table, chopsticks holding a piece of salmon sushi in front of her mouth. “Medical school sounds like hell.”

“It is,” Junhui deadpans. “We’ve learned enough material to take two tests already.” 

“He’s exaggerating,” Minghao rolls his eyes. “We weren’t taught enough to take even _one_ test.” 

“Says Mr. Genius over here,” Junhui counters. “Don’t listen to him - it really is a lot.” 

“It’s been _three days_.” 

“That’s exactly my point, Mr. Genius,” Junhui retorts. He points his chopsticks at him, only for Minghao to immediately push them down, tells him not to do that. “Three, _packed_ days. I already feel behind.” 

Minghao shrugs. He lifts a piece of his avocado roll up, says, “That’s what you get for procrastinating. Daily study is fundamental to success,” then eats it. It’s Junhui’s turn to roll his eyes.

Jieqiong elbows Minghao. “If you’re Mr. Genius, am I Mrs. Genius?” 

“You’re Genius _Nǚ wáng_ , Jie Jie,” Minghao coos, grabbing at her sides and tickling. She giggles and tries to push his hands away, whines about how the nickname Jie Jie sounds like he’s calling her his sister. 

“So sweet it’s making me hyperglycemic,” Junhui says with another eye roll, is promptly ignored by the two wrestling beside him. He swats Minghao away when a giggling Jieqiong shoves him into him. “Settle down, Mr. and Mrs. Genius!” 

“Anyway,” Jihoon turns his attention back to Cheng Xiao. “It’s okay. There will always be family trips. They’re trying to plan the next one short enough for this year’s winter break.” 

“To Japan again?” Zhou Mi asks. He’s the eldest in The Chinese Squad, already holding a bachelors in business but has returned to SNU for his masters degree. He’s one of the few people Jihoon knows at SNU with a whole wife and kids. Well - kid, singular. But still. 

Jihoon nods. “We have friends there that let us use their guest home.” 

“Take me next time,” Cheng Xiao whines. “I’ve never been.” 

“Take me to a panda sanctuary and it’s a deal.” 

Cheng Xiao lights up. “Okay! It can be a group trip. _Bǎo bǎo_ can come, too, Zhou _Gē_ ,” she says to Zhou Mi, referencing his kid. “He’ll love it.” 

The conversation between the two delves back into fluent Mandarin, much to Jihoon’s dismay. And, of course, Minghao and Jieqiong are flirting in Mandarin, Junhui making what seems to be jealous commentary and getting sideways glares from Minghao every once in a while. Jihoon quietly eats the rest of his sushi while listening, making a mental note of the words he does know. 

Rooming with Minghao was a gamble that turned out to be to Jihoon’s benefit; they got in contact via the matriculating class’ group chat, both looking for roommates to pay less for rent. Jihoon’s google search of Minghao’s name led him to his social media, where he tried to piece together his personality via pictures, posts, and associated friends - it was misleading, somewhat. Sure, Minghao had hundreds of pictures of him in the latest designer fashion, at five-star restaurants, traveling the world, and just as many photos of him at volunteering and charity events - all accurate depictions of Minghao. But, his social media also gave off an air of brattiness (and air-headedness, Jihoon has to admit), especially when he tagged _Louis Vuitton_ , _Balenciaga_ , _Gucci_ , _Cartier_ , and all his other equally-expensive garments and just-as-rich friends. 

Turns out Minghao is friendlier and more humble than he comes across online. When they first met in person, both at the leasing office of their chosen apartment to sign the contract, Minghao showed up in a matching _Balenciaga_ tracksuit and sneakers, sure, but also with a warm smile and enthusiastic, “Lee Jihoon? Nice to meet you, m’Xu Minghao.” He treated Jihoon like an old friend that he’d just happened to cross paths with again. Even when they matriculated and Minghao almost instantly found his Chinese crew (now dubbed The Chinese Squad), he always invited Jihoon to hang out with them. And Jihoon’s thankful for that, albeit most conversations tend to delve back into Mandarin. 

As if on cue, dinner ends with the group going back and forth in their native tongue for 90% of the final hour. Jihoon excuses himself when Jieqiong suggests they have a quick drink at the bar, saying, “I need to get the next train back. You guys have fun, though.” 

“Okay, be safe, don’t study too hard,” she says, pulling him into a hug. 

“Don’t forget about our deal,” Cheng Xiao is saying as she pulls on her coat. “Group Japan trip!” 

Jihoon pats Jieqiong on the back. “I won’t, I won’t.” 

At 9:00PM, Jihoon is back in his room studying. He’s halfway through the notes of the day, trying to time his next break so that he can take a quick shower and brush his teeth, when his email notification rings. _So late at night?_ Jihoon thinks to himself, clicking on the tab. Minghao isn’t even home yet, so it can’t be him. Jung-hyun with a question? She can text him. Seungkwan? Jihoon already sent him the notes. Clubs or social events don’t email after 6:00PM, too. 

He clicks on the inbox folder. 

_Jeonwonwoo@fac.snu.edu_. That answers that. 

Title: _Apologies_. 

Body: _Lee Jihoon, I hope I did not come off apathetic or doomsday. It was not my intention. Pediatrics is a fantastic speciality for those with the mental aptitude. If you are also considering it, then please do not be afraid. If I scared you off from considering it, please allow me to discuss the positives._

_Thank you, Jeon Wonwoo, MD_

_P.S. I do care when adults die. I understand I insinuated that I didn’t, but I do._

It shouldn’t be funny, but it is. Jihoon laughs, reads the email again, paying special attention to the P.S., and then laughs again. It’s endearing, almost. Jihoon hasn’t given his ‘apathetic’ commentary another thought since the conversation ended, yet it clearly keeps rolling around in Jeon’s head, making him feel inclined to send this late night email. Jihoon contemplates fucking with him and not answering at all until after tomorrow’s lectures, but knows it’s silly (and disrespectful) to play around with a professor. A response it is. 

_Dr., You did not sound apathetic or scare me away. In fact, I enjoyed the honesty. Kids are more important than adults, I know. Kidding._

_Looking forward to how you explain your way out of that one,_

_Lee Jihoon, SNU MS4_

He sounds like a tryhard when trying to type professionally, but whatever. He keeps the playful zest despite Rational Mind telling him not to. Jeon will get what he gets. 

Jihoon clicks send and closes his laptop. 

It’s 7:00PM that Thursday when Jihoon manages to arrive to Jeon Wonwoo’s office. Office hours have been over since 6:30, but one of the infamous KiAs slips out of the room just as Jihoon rounds the corner. It’s Kyla, and she smiles and nods an acknowledgement to him as she passes. “See you at the meeting tomorrow,” she calls out. He answers a _you, too_. 

The door is left ajar. Jeon’s office is tucked into the corner of the hallway; Jihoon’s never been in this building very often (see: he rarely, if ever, comes to office hours), but any time he has he never noticed his room. It’s easy to miss, all the way in the back. 

He goes to the door and knocks, head tilting to peek in. Jeon is standing at his desk, bent over to do something on his computer. The black jacket he was wearing during the morning lecture is sprawled across the back of his office chair, revealing the cream-colored, long-sleeved shirt he has on underneath. His glasses sit, precariously, on the bridge of his nose. “Come in,” he says. His voice is somehow deeper than Jihoon remembers it. 

“Dr. Jeon,” Jihoon greets as he steps inside the office, carefully pushing the door closed behind him. “Good evening.” 

Jeon glances up over the top of his glasses, lips spreading into a smile. “Lee Jihoon. I was doubtful you’d show up.” 

“I said I was looking forward to your explanation,” Jihoon says, as he settles into the chair in front of Jeon’s desk. He places his backpack on the floor by his feet. Trying not to sound as nervous as he feels, he finishes with, “Per my previous email.” 

He can’t pinpoint exactly _why_ , though. There’s definitely the element of not knowing how casual is too casual to speak with a professor, seeing as he seldom speaks to them one-on-one. But, there’s another, more pervasive element of intimidation - of attraction. Like looking at the human embodiment of everything he has wanted to be since grade school and actively having to assess himself and where he stands in comparison. Shorter, obviously. Much shorter. And not nearly as handsome. Voice not as deep. Intelligence nowhere close. A doctorate degree in medicine so far away it’s not even a tiny glint at the end of the tunnel.

So maybe there’s a multitude of things. All of which Jihoon has never felt simultaneously (or for one person) before. 

Jeon breathes a laugh. “That you did.” He settles back into his office chair. “Really, though - if you’ve been considering pediatrics, it’s an immensely rewarding specialty. There are outpatient pediatric clinics that see majority non-fatal cases, if that’s what you’re interested in. But, if you want to see the more chronic or serious cases, there are always hospital opportunities, as well. Everyone is different, and everyone has different levels of tolerance. I think I was too . . . anecdotal when recalling my experience rotating.” 

“I asked for your opinion,” Jihoon insists. “And I’ve honestly never really thought about pediatrics. I asked because, like. You got so far into school before you realized you didn’t want to do it.” 

Jeon nods. “I did. It’s normal, I think. A lot of my classmates changed their minds during rotations. I’ve kept in touch with a few of them, and most of them aren’t doing what they thought they would. Some of them aren’t even practicing medicine anymore.” 

“Do you know why?” Jihoon hesitates. “I can’t imagine getting so far just to... give up?” 

“It’s hard.” Jeon shrugs, like it’s that simple. “Healthcare isn’t just treating and diagnosing. You build a relationship with your patients, you deal with the administrative side of medicine, you work long hours and it isn’t always gratifying. It can be a thankless career. Sometimes it feels like glorified customer service.” 

Jihoon doesn’t respond right away, just sits and stares, spurring Jeon to continue. “I’m sorry. I really do make it sound doomsday. I just.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, eyes flicking nervously to his desk, computer, then back into Jihoon’s eyes. “I think it’s important to be an informed student. You worked so hard to get to this position, so I don’t want you to give up. You’re going to do great things for our society. But I can’t pretend like it’s only going to be uphill after graduation. I’m sure you know that.”

Jihoon’s mouth twists into a smile. “No, I like it. Like I said in my email, it’s the most honest a professor - or, doctor - has been with me since I started.” And it’s true. He’s been pushed and encouraged so hard by his parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, high school teachers, _everyone_ , to take the Suneung, to do what he needs to do to become Dr. Lee Jihoon, that no one has ever tried to bring him back down to earth. It’s always _you’re going to be set for life_ , _you’re our family’s shining light_ , _don’t forget me when you’re rich and prospering_. No one talks about the feeling of dread, the grief of loss, the doubts and the anxiety and the struggles to keep yourself afloat. Not even once he began at SNU’s medical program did any of the faculty or guest lecturers warn them, outside of threatening them of the consequences if they fell behind in their studies. 

“I thought that this would be the easy part. Well. Not _easy_ , but easier than all the work it took to get here. The only thing that really changed was what I stressed about, I guess.” Eye contact getting too heavy, Jihoon lowers his eyes to Jeon’s paper-scattered desk. “Now I have to think about what I want to do for the rest of my life, and if I’ll ever regret it. You didn’t scare me, just gave me a lot more to think about.” 

Jeon reaches out and taps a finger in Jihoon’s line of sight, signaling for eye contact. When Jihoon obliges, Jeon lowers his voice to say, “The worst thing about this part in your studies is that everyone makes you feel like you have to make a decision right away. I’m sure there are many of your classmates that feel like they know exactly what they want to do, make you feel like you have to, too.” 

Yeah. Minghao and emergency medicine. Junhui and radiology. Seungkwan and OBGYN. He’s never heard them doubt or change their minds about any of it. Jihoon confidently answers cardiology when anyone asks him his ideas - but the truth is that he isn’t 100% sure. He just needs an answer. 

“You don’t have to make your choice right this instant,” Jeon continues. “You’re not going to have to match with a residency for another couple of years, so try to enjoy the process and keep an open mind. It’s good to have a specialty or two that you’re considering. But don’t let anybody make you feel like you need to have your future written out, year by year. That was my mistake when I was your age.” 

It’s advice that’s obvious to Jihoon now, but didn’t feel so simple just hours prior. He’s been going nonstop for all his life that he hasn’t given himself a chance to pause and think about how he _really_ feels. So he says that. And Jeon nods his full agreement, as if he’s looking into the mirror of the past while Jihoon is looking into the future. 

“It’s not easy to be a student. Especially in our country. Make sure you take care of yourself.” His voice falling even lower in tone, he says, “My office hours aren’t only for school-related inquiries. Even if you want to take a break and talk about, I don’t know, _cats_ for half an hour, I’m here.” 

“Cats?” Jihoon asks, laughing incredulously. He’s secretly thankful for the change to a lighter topic. There’s so much he could say about the rollercoaster to his admission, but it’d take too much from him emotionally to get through (the death of a childhood that never was, the mourning for what he barely lost).“Be careful what you wish for. I can talk about how much more I like dogs than cats for hours. Ask Minghao.” 

“Looking forward to it,” Jeon says, also laughing. “I can talk just as long about how dogs are the spawn of satan.”

It’s nearing half past 8 by the time they leave the office, walking side by side. The sun has long since fallen behind the horizon, covering the campus in a thick sheet of night. Jeon pulls his jacket closer to his body while Jihoon zips his sweatshirt up to the top. There’s no one in sight when they step outside of the building. 

“I think teaching was my true calling,” Jeon is saying. His breath makes puffs of smoke in the air. “It took me more than 14 years of school to realize it. But I’m glad I did.” 

“I’m glad you did too,” Jihoon agrees. “And that you went to medical school to do it.” 

Jeon ponders him. 

“Otherwise we wouldn’t have had this conversation,” Jihoon presses, like it’s obvious that’s where his mind went. “Kinda feels like a rock was lifted off my shoulders.” 

Jeon is still contemplating him. The nerves that he had eased away are coming back to replace the empty spot the rock left on Jihoon’s shoulders. He doesn’t know what else to say. He’s proven himself to be the king of verbal diarrhea, but he doesn’t want to make that mistake anymore. Habits die hard, though, especially with two, large eyes shamelessly staring into his soul — another thing Jihoon hasn’t had to face before Jeon Wonwoo (outside of kids that haven’t been taught social decency yet). 

Not to say that Jeon doesn’t know any better. In fact, it feels intentional, calculated, almost. Feels like he’s waiting for a façade that Jihoon put up to crumble under his stare, make him admit something that doesn’t exist. There’s no façade, no walls, no lies — just nerves and a mouth full of word diarrhea. 

It’s like the moment in the classroom, their first meeting, when the conversation came to a logical conclusion and Jeon stood at the podium, still staring. History repeats itself. 

“Um,” Jihoon starts. Here it comes. “Did I say something weird?” There it goes. 

Jeon shakes his head. “Weird? No.” He finally looks away, at a distant light pole smudging the sky and blurring the stars. “You said I was the most honest a professor has been with you.” He looks at him again, finding his words. “I’m just glad I have that effect. I haven’t been told that before.” 

Jihoon tilts his head. “That you’re the most honest?”

“That - and that I lifted a rock off someone’s shoulders. I was afraid I’ve done the opposite.” 

Jihoon doesn’t supply a response, just lets it hang in the air, so the conversation falls to another conclusion. They stand there quietly on the sidewalk in front of the office building, pulling their arms close to their bodies for warmth. Is this where he says thank you? You’re welcome? Bye, see you next week, and walk away? It doesn’t feel right. Like there has to be something else more final than Jeon’s worry. So, “I think,” Jihoon starts. Pauses. “I think I just need honesty. Even if it’s not good, or. Even if it’s not sunshine and rainbows. Maybe it’s weird, because it’s not like anything really changed in my head, but just hearing that you and your, um, old classmates all ended up doing different things than what they thought they wanted. Just makes me feel better.”

Jeon’s still looking at him, head gently bobbing to say he’s heard him. 

“I know not everyone in my class knows exactly what they want to do - it’d be stupid of me to assume that - but you just get trapped inside your head, y’know?” 

“When you’re the center of your own universe, which all of us are to ourselves, it’s easy to get trapped there. You get told who you are so often you start to believe it.” 

That sends a shiver down Jihoon’s spine in a way the cold doesn’t. That’s exactly it. “Yeah,” he says dumbly. “Yeah.” 

Jeon finally looks away, back at the light pole, and lets out a deep exhale. “Okay,” he says. “It’s getting colder by the minute. Do you need a ride to the station?” 

Jihoon shakes his head. “I’m actually gonna go to the library and review. Thank you, though.” 

“Don’t forget to eat dinner,” Jeon reaches out and grabs him by the shoulder, gives a gentle shake. Must be his way of comforting someone, Jihoon surmises. “See you Monday.” 

“Monday, yeah. Goodnight.” 

A final smile, then Jeon is off - that same, slow shuffle. Jihoon watches him cross the street before he turns and heads the direction of the library. 

* * *

A new semester means new club events and meetings. The most (unwilling) social interaction Jihoon gets is being vice president of the medical program’s social board. Every other Friday, after the day’s lectures, the club members hold a meeting to brainstorm charity and recreational events they can involve the rest of the cohort in. Social club president, Lee Chan, is the youngest in their class - but nags as if he’s the eldest. 

“Phone down,” he says to Jihoon without looking at him as he enters the club room, passing by the table of seated members to stand at his ‘rightful’ spot at the head. “The meeting has begun.” 

Jihoon rolls his eyes, but closes out his email app anyway ( _Jihoon_ , _I hope you had dinner_ , was Dr. Jeon’s last email to him, sent right before his lecture that morning), setting his phone face down on the table. “Sir, yes, sir.” They’ve already had their back and forth about Chan’s use of informal language, well before Chan proved himself to be the power-tripping hard ass that he is today; now, they barely tolerate one another. 

Unsurprisingly, Know it Alls #1, #2, and #3 are in the club, right on time in their seats and geared to go, not a phone in site. As Chan begins to go over the agenda of the day, they scribble furiously on their notepads. “ _Jungsik_ restaurant is willing to collaborate with us to raise money for breast cancer,” Chan is saying. “We can encourage participation from the faculty and our class, so we get a higher turn out. 90% of profit from food and drink will go towards Korean Breast Cancer Society . . .” 

Jihoon very carefully slides his phone off the table and holds it under the table, tapping on the email app again. His last one to Jeon was during class - _Don’t worry,_ _I had my clinical medicine notes with a serving of pharmacology_ \- to which Jeon responded, _emailing during class? Pay attention to my lectures, please. P.S. That doesn’t sound like that tastes very good. Try some vegetables next time._ Biting back a smile, Jihoon taps on ‘new message’ and begins to write a response when Chan clears his throat. Loudly. 

“What did I say about phones? Did you hear _anything_ I just said, Vice President Lee Jihoon?” 

Jihoon looks up at him from his half-written message. “Restaurant, raising money for breast cancer, date set for next Friday. Did I miss anything?” 

Chan narrows his eyes. “What restaurant did I say?” 

“ _Jungsik_.” 

“Who are we inviting?” 

“The class and faculty.” 

The rest of the club members sit quietly, looking between the two. Chan gives Jihoon a longer look of disdain before turning away. “Anyway,” he continues. “We want to encourage everyone to purchase at least one meal, one side, and a _non-alcoholic_ beverage. Any alcohol purchased won’t be added to the charity fund. So, you can drink if you want, but that’s purely personal.” 

Victory. Jihoon returns shamelessly to his drafted email. _You don’t leave very much time to eat. There is a lot of material to cover, Doctor. Maybe if you sent a study guide I will eat vegetables_. Sent. 

“I was also thinking of doing a toy charity drive with the program. Everyone will be encouraged to purchase and wrap a toy worth 24,000 won for kids in need. I wanted to brainstorm some prize ideas to give to those that donate. Any suggestions?” 

“Pizza party?” Min-hyun, KiA #2, raises his hand to say. 

Chan grimaces. “Sounds expensive. Every person that donates needs to get something so that there’s incentive to participate.” 

“What if we get the top 3 donators a pizza party?” Kyla suggests next. “That way there can be friendly competition and more toys are donated.” 

“Okay,” Chan nods approvingly. “That sounds much more doable than a pizza party for a class of over 100. Anyone else, or is the pizza party the best option?” 

Jihoon’s phone buzzes in his hand. Glancing down from his daydream, he reads the screen. _A hunger strike for a study guide? You’re going to have to try harder than that_ . He bites back another smile and instantly taps on the new message button. _Fine - Instead I’ll keep coming to every office hour you have and take up all your time. You’ll get so tired of me you’ll have to make the study guide. It’s foolproof._

“Vice president.” 

Jihoon looks up. “Yeah?” 

Chan crosses his arms. “Did you hear what Su Ah suggested as an alternative to the pizza party?” 

Fuck. Jihoon glances at Su Ah then back at an angry President Lee Chan. “Um,” he starts. “Of course. Definitely. I’m sitting right here.”

“What did she say, then?” 

His phone buzzes again. That was fast. “One moment, please,” Jihoon raises an index finger. “I need to process what Su Ah said.” He opens the email app again and taps on the new message from Jeon Wonwoo, ignoring the disgruntled commentary - “Slacking off as usual”- from Chan, who doesn’t wait for him and moves on to another club topic. Jihoon’s brainstorming something clever to say in return when -

_That doesn’t sound like a punishment to me._

Oh. Okay. He can pretend to be naïve all he wants, but he knows what this is. What it means. His surroundings fade and blur into a mix of colors and distant voices, every sense fixated on the screen of his phone. Before he can stop himself, before Rational Mind can tap him on the shoulder and remind him that there are lines Not to be Crossed, Jihoon lets his fingers type away.

_Let’s test that out._

  
  


This has to be crossing some type of moral code or boundary into flirting.

Jihoon may not have a laundry list of conquests, but he’s no stranger to this. The emails stop at that: Jihoon’s _let’s test that out_ , to which Jeon replies with one word only. _Sure_. No signature. No fluff. Not even a period at the end. And Jihoon thinks about it over and over again, throughout his weekend full of studying and preparing for their first exam scheduled for the following Tuesday. Minghao stops by his room both Saturday and Sunday to ask if he wants to go to lunch or dinner with a few members of Chinese Squad, and sometimes Jihoon goes, sometimes he doesn’t. But he doesn’t stop re-reading the emails inside his head, doesn’t stop wondering what this all means. 

It has to be harmless. That’s the conclusion he comes to that Monday morning, as he listens to Dr. Jeon Wonwoo’s morning lecture. It’s not like anything will come of it. Flirting is just _flirting_ . Like. He’s flirted with _many_ women in his years, and only a couple of them lead to a relationship. Or, in Jung-hyun’s case, mindless sex. Fuck - he’s flirted with several _men_ before, too. And only twice did that lead to anything substantial, albeit they were both brief. The terms change when the subject is a member of the faculty, yes, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be harmless. 

Right? 

That’s what he uses to ease his worries, when the lecture is over and everyone is packing up and leaving. “Do you feel ready?” Jung-hyun is asking him as she stands. 

“I don’t know what to expect,” Seungkwan answers for Jihoon. “I want to feel ready, but I heard his exams are tough.” 

“That’s what I heard, too.” Jung-hyun lets out a dramatic sigh. “It’s going to be a very long night. Time to mentally prepare myself for 2 hours of sleep.” 

Seungkwan groans his agreement. 

“Minghao sent me some practice questions Junhui made,” Jihoon says. He gets up, hooks his backpack straps over his shoulders. “I can email them to you.” 

Jung-hyun and Seungkwan begin to say something to the affirmative, but Jihoon catches eye of Chan chatting to Jeon up at the podium, strains to listen. Of course, he can’t hear. He’s too far away, and there are too many voices in between. But, he sees him handing Jeon a flyer - the one he said he’d made during their club meeting to advertise for the _Jungsik_ fundraiser. Jeon’s face is as impassive as usual when he takes the flyer and begins to read it. Jihoon has to wonder if he’ll even go - he doesn’t strike him as the social type. 

He gets his answer later that evening, when he’s tucked into the corner of the library surrounded by outlines and empty cups of coffee. His computer flashes with a notification. _Jeonwonwoo@fac.snu.edu: Are you a member of the social club?_

Well. Jihoon does need a quick break; there’s so much caffeine coursing through his veins that he’s buzzing with it, making it hard to concentrate. _Social Club Vice President Lee Jihoon here. How may I help you today?_

A few minutes pass before another notification pops up on his screen: _I thought so. Are you required to attend all social club events?_

_Unfortunately_ . _Did Chan invite you to come to_ Jungsik _Friday?_

_Jeonwonwoo@fac.snu.edu: He did. He mentioned your name and I was curious, so I thought I’d ask you for confirmation._

Jihoon bites his bottom lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He may or may not regret this, but he doesn’t give himself a chance to reconsider when he types and sends, _Did word of my mandatory attendance decide whether you’ll go or not?_ They’ve stepped a little too far into unprofessionalism for it to even matter, anyway. He thinks. 

There’s no minute-quick response, so Jihoon forces himself to return to his heart outline; 10 minutes into pretending to pay attention later, Jeon Wonwoo responds. 

_Just me being curious. Happy studying._

Okay. Cheeky. He can be cheeky back. Jihoon sends _See you there_ , then makes himself close his laptop and gets back to work. 

“Easy,” Minghao says, beaming. He steps into line with Jihoon out in the hallway, after Tuesday’s cardiology exam. “Whoever said Dr. Jeon’s exams are difficult can suck my ass.” 

Hoards of defeated students file out of the classroom behind them, a dreadful silence hanging in the air. This is the version of Xu Minghao that is Jihoon’s least favorite: bragging, 3.9GPA Xu Minghao. The Minghao that locks himself in his room for a full day when he gets anything below a 90 on an exam - hell, even a 90 sends him into a tantrum. 

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Junhui slides to Minghao’s other side. “I feel like no amount of studying could’ve prepared me for that.” 

“Just ignore Mr. Genius,” Jihoon says, rolling his eyes. “You know how he gets.” 

Minghao groans. “ _Please_ don’t let this lame Mr. Genius thing catch on.” 

“Mr. Genius, Mr. Genius,” Junhui kicks at Minghao’s thin legs, only to get kicked back at. “Hey - you’re not allowed to fight back! Accept defeat, Mr. Genius.” 

And then they’re back to bickering in Mandarin. Great. Jihoon’s brain hurts too much to try to decipher what they’re saying, so he lets them have it and goes to find Jung-hyun and Seungkwan. “So,” Jihoon starts, when he finds them standing by the windows solemnly. “I’m gonna take a wild guess and assume that sucked just as much for you guys as it did for me.” 

“Busy trying not to cry here, thanks,” Jung-hyun’s tone is tight. “The first exam of the year is going to put me straight in remediation.” Seungkwan has a hand on the middle of her back, rubbing comforting circles. 

“I doubt it,” Seungkwan tells her. “You knew all the answers when I quizzed you last night. If you’re in remediation, _I’m_ in remediation.” Jihoon knows Seungkwan’s just being nice; he may not act like it, with his frequent slew of jokes and apt for making a fool of himself for cheap entertainment, but he’s the same (more modest, more humble) type of genius that Minghao is. Seungkwan’s one of the rare, bold types to open his grades in the middle of class, and Jihoon - being the nosy person that he is - has yet to see a score below a 95. 

“Your questions were easier than the ones Dr. Jeon made,” Jung-hyun says. “Basically every question was a clinical vignette. I can’t read that fast!” 

“I heard that’s what the exams are going to be like from now on,” Jihoon says. 

Jung-hyun covers her face with her hands, rubbing the heels into her eyes. “Oh, god. Please don’t tell me that. I’m not cut out for this.” 

Jihoon feels a B in his future - and he already told himself he’s okay with that when he pressed the _submit exam_ button and closed his laptop. It was difficult. No doubt about it. He and Minghao also quizzed one another in the library the night before, and Minghao’s questions were complex, but nowhere near the complexity that was that exam. He fell asleep at four in the morning, woke up at five to review Junhui’s practice questions one more time, and then slept from six to seven. He popped a caffeine pill on the way to the lecture hall, got through it with that and the combination of nerves-induced adrenaline, and now feels his body crashing on him. 

Seungkwan looks exhausted, too, but he seems to be keeping it together well enough to comfort a teary Jung-hyun. Minghao and Junhui are the only remaining students bickering playfully, the exam long behind them. And Jihoon isn’t as high-strung as many of his other classmates, though he can’t pretend like he isn’t worried about his performance. Or even a little disappointed that he (probably) got a B after a long, sleepless night. 

“We should all just go take a nap,” Jihoon suggests. He gently nudges Jung-hyun with his elbow. “Let’s nap, okay? What’s done is done - we can’t go back in the past, so let’s plan for our future.” 

“Poetic,” Seungkwan says. 

“You’re always like that, hyung,” Jung-hyun makes little windows between her fingers to peek at Jihoon. “Sometimes I wonder if you can even _feel_ anything. Outside of maybe anger, or something.” 

Jihoon bristles. “What? I’m saying that since we know what the tests are like now, we can better prepare for the next one. That’s all.” 

“We _just_ got out of the exam, Jihoon. Let me mourn for two freaking minutes before you start trying to act like my therapist.” 

The bite in the remark takes Jihoon aback. Short of words, he blurts, “Okay, sorry,” in response and looks away. He can still feel her burning a hole in his face before the finger windows close again, and she turns and walks off. 

“I guess _not_ poetic,” Seungkwan mumbles under his breath before hesitating, looking between Jihoon and Jung-hyun’s receding back. Shrugging at Jihoon like _what can you do?_ , he speed walks after her. 

He. Doesn’t know what just happened. Jung-hyun crumbles easily under stress - he’s known that since first year - but the insult is too tailored to only be stress-induced anger. And it’s not the first time she’s called him emotionless; he’s heard this from her before, two years ago, when they decided things were easier if they were just friends. She feels everything, and, “you feel nothing,” she’d told him. “I never know what you’re thinking.” 

It can’t be further from the truth. He wanted to tell her that right then and there, that it all just stays in his chest, because there are too many barriers and filters set up before it can reach his mouth. But there were barriers for that, too. So, he said nothing, and he says nothing, and now they’re just friends. Much like the childhood he never had, he prefers not to think about it too much. 

_Then I’ll take a nap alone_ , Jihoon thinks to himself, turning away and walking in the direction of the train station. 

There’s no time to fret about the exam, because lectures continue at noon and preparations have to be made for next week’s exam. Dr. Jeon isn’t scheduled to lecture again for another two weeks since his cardiology lectures are complete, but he sends the class an email that he’s always available to discuss the contents of the exam and any material they don’t understand in the interim. They’ve moved onto diseases of the lungs. 

Jung-hyun pretty much ignores him for the rest of the day — which, it’s expected. He doesn’t feel like he’s done anything wrong (it was an attempt at comfort, for fucks sake), but he graciously accepts the punishment and goes through the lectures minding his own business. He’s not much of a talker anyway, especially when he needs to pay attention to the lecturer.

“Want me to talk to her for you?” Seungkwan asks, when Jung-hyun silently packs up her belongings at the end of the day and saunters off to a few of her girl friends. 

Jihoon stands up, slides his laptop into his backpack. “Nah,” he says. “It’ll blow over in a few days. Thanks, though.” 

Seungkwan looks at him warily. “You’re not gonna... talk to her about it?” 

Jihoon considers what to say without spilling too much. “This happens sometimes,” he starts. “She’ll talk to me when she’s ready.” 

“Ah.” Seungkwan squints and nods into the distance as if understanding something that Jihoon has yet to say. “Of course. The love birds have history. Got it.” He elbows Jihoon, finally gets the shorter man to look at him. “If you ever need me to talk to her for you, though, just let me know. I won’t tell her you sent me. Not to toot my own horn, but I think I’m pretty good at being a mediator.”

Jihoon shoots him a tight-lipped smile. “Okay. Thanks.” A service that he knows he won’t ever cash in. Regardless, he’s touched that Seungkwan cares enough to offer (despite the fact that he and Jung-hyun are _not_ love birds and definitely never will be). It’s too exhausting to explain, though, and he lets Seungkwan get away with it. They walk together out of the classroom, splitting ways as Seungkwan finds his friends (let’s be real, he’s friends with everyone) and Jihoon runs into Minghao and Junhui. 

“We’re gonna go grab dinner with Zhou Mi,” Minghao tells him when they fall into step. “Wanna come?” 

Jihoon shakes his head. “I brought my food, but thanks. I’m headed to the library to _hopefully_ make and finish some outlines.” 

“Live a little,” Junhui whines at him. “You’re always in that god forsaken library.” 

“How long will you be there? I can come by after we’re done,” Minghao says, completely disregarding Junhui. 

“I doubt I’m leaving before midnight,” Jihoon answers. He leans forward to look across Minghao at Junhui. “And I _will_ be living a little, actually. Did you see the fliers? Next Friday the social club is hosting a charity event at _Jungsik_. I’ll be there.” 

Junhui rolls his eyes. “You’ll be there because it’s required. That’s not living. That’s being a slave to school.” 

“Aren’t we all?” Jihoon quips. 

“No,” comes Junhui’s immediate response. “No, we aren’t.” 

“Junhui and I will be there,” Minghao butts in. He places a palm on Junhui’s chest and gently pushes him back, a silent sign to stop talking. Junhui grumbles but is compliant.“ _Jungsik_ , next Friday - done and done.” They get outside onto the sidewalk and stall. “See you later. Save some lectures for me to do.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jihoon teases. “Bye,” he says to both of them, and they exchange their own goodbyes. 

It’s difficult not to feel guilty as he watches them walk off. Of course, after so many years of knowing one another it’s not unusual or unexpected for Jihoon to prefer his solitude. This has been the normal routine with anyone he considers a friend: Seungkwan, Junhui, Minghao and co., Jung-hyun, et al. It doesn’t make it feel any worse to turn down offers to hang out, though; an ever-increasing part of Jihoon wishes he were more outgoing or friendly like Minghao. (And it’s a surprise Jung-hyun was even interested in him for as long as she was - they’re polar opposites. And she’s so beautiful.) 

But. A slave to his insecurities, Jihoon fights the urge to text Minghao and tell him he’s changed his mind. It’s safer like this, tucked into the corner of the library with his dinner and a large cup of coffee. He’ll see Minghao later, anyway, and Junhui he’ll see at _Jungsik_. No need to explore outside the realm of his comfort zone when he’s forced to be with his classmates due to proximity. Right? 

Right. He just had dinner with them this week. End of story. He needs to get these outlines done so he can study. 

There’s a surprisingly decent turn out for the _Jungsik_ fundraiser event. The restaurant staff has to keep adding tables as more students and faculty members show up in clusters - by the time they begin to order their food, there are two rows of shoved-together tables, everyone intermingling and sipping on their waters. Chan is busy running around like a chicken with its head cut off, jotting down everybody’s names and food and (non-alcoholic) drink orders; every KiA in the social club jump at the opportunity to help him out (probably due to the fact that faculty members are present and they never miss the chance to show off, Jihoon surmises), leaving Jihoon free to sit with Minghao and Junhui at the end of one of the rows, near a cluster of professors. 

Jihoon is equally surprised to see Dr. Jeon Wonwoo. He’s wearing a trench coat, large, navy blue turtleneck, form-fitting slacks, and those large, round glasses of his. Jihoon sort of expected Jeon would come, especially after their email exchange, but, like, he also _didn’t_ expect it. He thought Jeon would be too busy doing doctor or professor stuff, or that he’d forget, or something. Yet here he is, greeting some of his coworkers and getting comfortable in the seat next to Jihoon - as if fate or the stars set that spot up perfectly for them. 

“It’s adenocarcinoma,” Minghao is saying to Junhui in an annoyed huff. “It’s _always_ adenocarcinoma, if you haven’t realized it yet.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Junhui shoots back. “I said the most common type of _small_ cell lung cancer, idiot. It also starts with an A, I think.” 

You guessed it: they proceed to continue their heated discussion in Mandarin. Which is fine this time, because Jeon turns to look at Jihoon, and suddenly Minghao and Junhui don’t exist. “Wow. Lee Jihoon. What a surprise,” Jeon says dryly. He usually sounds dry, honestly, but this time there’s a sarcastic tilt to it and a matching, faint smirk that briefly touches his lips. “Didn’t think you’d come.” 

“I could say the same to you,” Jihoon tries. He means it. He really could say the same. He shifts in his seat, ever so slightly turning his body away from his bickering friends and towards Jeon’s taller, thinner frame. “Glad you came, doctor. It’s a good cause.” That’s what he’s going with. 

“Very true. And it’s nice to get out sometimes.” He picks up the menu and considers the options while Jihoon considers him. Jeon never fails to make Jihoon feel wholly underdressed. He’s got a jean jacket and plain black tee shirt on, scoop neck low with age, and blue jeans that sort of bunch up at his ankles when he stands up. Jeon has leather loafers on while Jihoon’s got his favorite black _Adidas_ sandals. Definitely underdressed. “What did you get?” 

“Jajangmyeon with a side of white rice, no question,” Jihoon says, not skipping a beat. “And I know it doesn’t count towards the charity, but I ordered soju, too.” 

Jeon nods approvingly, eyes still scanning the menu. “Sounds good.” Just then, Chan comes by and leans over Jeon’s shoulder, pencil and paper in hand. “I’ll have what Jihoon is having, please.”

Chan slides an index finger down his paper, looking for Jihoon’s name. “Jajangmyeon, side of white rice, and soju. Got it.” He scribbles furiously on his paper and disappears just as quickly as he arrived, barking orders to KiA #2. 

“Excellent choice,” Jihoon says, snickering. 

“I trust your decisions,” Jeon concurs. He finally looks from the menu to catch Jihoon’s gaze. “You’ve proven you make good choices, after that cardiology exam.” 

Jihoon’s heart leaps high in his chest. “You know our grades already?” 

Jeon puts an index finger to his own lips, a plea for secrecy. “Let’s just say,” he says. “That you don’t need to be worried.” 

A deep sense of relief washes over Jihoon, pulling his back just a little bit straighter in his seat. The sleepless night paid off after all. “Conversation forgotten,” he says, then takes a long sip of his water. 

Their bottles of soju arrive, then their food, and with each glass of alcohol downed the more loose Jihoon’s limbs feel, the lighter his head. He laughs a little too hard at Jeon when he scrunches his nose up at a bowl of fried salmon that he passes down to the professor on his other side. “Not a big fan,” he confirms, laughing with him. Jeon doesn’t finish his meal like Jihoon does, but he does match a glass of soju to each glass Jihoon backs. 

“You don’t strike me as the drinking type,” Jihoon blurts, spurred on by his rising intoxication. “Or the social type.” 

Jeon raises his eyebrows. “The social type? No. But I do enjoy a glass of red wine in the evenings.” He lifts his half-empty, second bottle of soju and gives it a shake. “This is a little too.. heavy for my tastes, but I’ll drink it on occasion.” 

“You look like you’re drinking it just fine,” Jihoon teases. 

“Helps with my nerves,” Jeon admits. “I’m not the best with crowds.” 

The younger man tilts his head, curious. “You lecture to a hall of over one hundred students for a living. That’s, like, a mini-concert, or something.” 

Jeon laughs dryly to this, a rumble that’s heard even in the chorus of several conversations. “It’s different when it’s your job. I have a list of objectives and a script to follow. Out here, there are no rules.” He looks from the bottle in his hand and back to Jihoon. “You don’t strike me as the social type, either. You’re very quiet.” 

“Am I?” It’s something he’s known about himself, but he’s never heard it said to him before. Nor did he expect to hear it from Dr. Jeon. 

“Something I’ve noticed in the past three weeks,” Jeon says, shrugging simply. “Or, maybe I’m just assuming. I always see your friends talking at you, not really with you. It’s why I was surprised to see you were vice president of the social club.” 

Talking at him, not with him... Jihoon hadn’t noticed. But, thinking about it now, it’s true. He’s surrounded himself with big talkers for friends — Mr. Popular Seungkwan, Flashy Minghao, Prankster Junhui — and they’ve filled up the otherwise silence in his life just fine. It’s why Jung-hyun is mad at him right now; he’s quiet. Seemingly emotionless. Truly just always afraid of saying the wrong thing. _We’re not so different, then, huh?_ Jihoon thinks to himself. The social club is supposed to be his opportunity to branch out, make a difference, and have something substantial on his resume.

But. Wait. He decides to blame it on the soju when he finally breaches the invisible barrier and nudges an elbow into Jeon’s arm casually. Maybe _too_ casually for a student-professor relationship. “You’ve been watching me? How would you know that?” 

There’s another rumble of a laugh, then Jeon takes his time answering with a second glass of his drink. He swallows it down, slow as ever, and shrugs again. “I’m an observant person. I have to be, as a cardiologist.” Another glass poured and downed. Jihoon watches in awe. “You miss one thing and in a month there’s a lawsuit on your desk.” 

“But I’m not your patient. There’s no murmur to miss.” 

“No,” Jeon concurs. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t be observant.” 

“Observant of _me_.” It’s not a question. “And the way I am with my friends. Out of one hundred other students to observe.” He’s pushing a little too hard, he knows. He knows, and yet he does it anyway, because even if it goes poorly there’s always the Too Much Alcohol excuse. That, and his curiosity has beaten out Rational Mind half an hour ago. 

Jeon Wonwoo’s answer is to look at him. He looks at him, and Jihoon looks back, taking in the sharp lines and features of his face. The straight nose, the parted, full lips, the sharp eyes hidden behind the round frames of his glasses. The way his wavy, ink black fringe dances into his line of vision. So clearly handsome, and so clearly burning a hole into Jihoon with expectancy. Expecting what? For Jihoon to understand? To figure it out? To sort out the differential and narrow it down to the most likely cause? There’s more than enough time, with the two looking at one another, for Jihoon to do just that — but he’s reluctant. 

He’s reluctant, because he _does_ know what this means. No differential needed. 

“I have a lot of time on my hands,” Jeon finally says. “Before and after class begins.” That’s not what his expression is saying. 

Jihoon gives Jeon’s shoulder a weak shove — boundaries long gone — and sniggers. “That’s not a good lie and you know it.” 

Jeon cracks a smile. “What lie?” 

Jihoon’s snigger turns into a laugh and he shoves him again. “Whatever.” 

This is how the rest of the evening in _Jungsik_ goes. The implication is never addressed, but they fall into steady conversation interspersed with Jihoon cackling while shoving or grabbing his arm and Jeon intermittently pushing back, albeit softer and briefer. 

“— And I know it makes me sound like a spoiled brat, but it does suck to miss another family trip. Sacrifice, delayed gratifications, yeah yeah I’ve heard it all before,” Jihoon waves his hand in the air dismissively. “But it doesn’t make it suck less, y’know?” 

“And your entire family went without you,” Jeon agrees. “You’re not spoiled for feeling upset about that.” 

“Not everyone can afford yearly vacations,” Jihoon says. “That’s the spoiled brat part about it. Minghao’s friend has never been before, but I’m here whining when I’ve been, like, five times already.” 

Jeon puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “What his friend has and hasn’t done has nothing to do with your feeling upset.” 

Jihoon pauses, glances at Jeon’s hand and chuckles. “You do that a lot.” 

Jeon raises an eyebrow. “Do what?” 

“The hand on shoulder thing. When I first went up to talk to you you did it. In your office, too.” Jihoon dramatically grabs Jeon’s shoulder in return. “It’s, like, your way of comfort. I’ve figured you out.” 

Jeon removes his hand, bashful. “Do I? I never noticed.” 

“No, no,” Jihoon tries. “I wasn’t saying, like... _don’t_ do it. Just that I know why, now.” He pats Jeon’s shoulder, then removes his own hand. “There, there.” 

Both men laugh at this, and Jeon playfully pushes Jihoon’s leg with his own knee. “Stupid.” 

Jihoon returns the knee. “Tell that to my test grade.” 

At 9 p.m. the bills are passed around and paid. Some students and faculty begin to make their way out onto the sidewalk and towards their vehicles or cabs while others lollygag in the restaurant, either remaining in their seats or standing near the bar. Jeon Wonwoo stands to talk with a cluster of professors, and Jihoon remembers his friends’ existence when Minghao nudges him to attention. 

“Jun and I are going to meet Zhou Mi at a bar down the street,” Minghao says. “Wanna come with?” 

“First round of shots on me,” Junhui sing-songs. 

Jihoon gets up to mingle with the two men. He can really feel the effects of the alcohol when his center of gravity changes, causing his head to temporarily spin. “Nah,” he starts. “I’m probably just gonna head back and —” 

“— Study?” Junhui finishes. He tuts at him. “I need you to be present. In the moment, if you will.” He throws his hands up. “Do you even consider us friends?” 

Jihoon sees Jeon start to separate from his coworkers in the corner of his eye. He’s turning towards the door. Is he leaving? “Of _course_ —” 

“He just secretly hates Chinese people,” Minghao says, smirking. 

Junhui snaps his fingers and widens his eyes. “You’re right! That has to be it —”

“Minghao.” Jihoon looks away from a retreating Dr. Jeon and shoots him a glare. “Don’t get Jun started, please.” 

Minghao beams. “That’s what you get for joining him in the Mr. Genius shit.” 

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Okay. Sorry. But, no, that’s not why I can’t go. I really do have to study. I wasted too much time here already.” He checks the time on his phone. “I was supposed to leave, like, an hour ago.” 

“Fine. You win this time. But next time we go out you have to come or I’m not talking to you anymore.” Junhui crosses his arms defiantly. “No more practice questions for you, too.” 

Minghao pushes Junhui back by his chest, the usual silent plea to shut up. “We won’t stop talking to you, but we’ll be very upset. I might even wait a few hours before I send my question bank. So please come next time I ask.” 

Jeon has officially stepped out of the restaurant. Jihoon can still see him meandering when a couple of classmates walk up to him. “Fine,” he says over Minghao’s shoulder. “No promises, but I’ll try.” 

“Cool. Now be free, you nerd. I’ll be busy getting stupid drunk with this idiot.” Minghao gives Junhui’s arm a shake. 

“You’re the idiot,” Junhui grumbles, but cracks a smile anyway. 

Jihoon follows the two out, exchanges another goodbye, and then turns to where Jeon is standing when they walk off. He’s just gotten done speaking to the stragglers and looks over at Jihoon, as if sensing his presence. “Did you drive here?” he asks. 

Jihoon shakes his head and approaches. “Got a cab. You?” 

“Drove. Need a ride back?”

Jihoon pauses to consider this. “If you don’t mind...” his voice falters. 

“Of course I don’t mind. C’mon.” 

The alcohol warms him like a furnace, shielding him from the winter chill that his jean jacket and scoop-neck tee doesn’t block. And even through the many glasses of soju, Jihoon can feel the nerves crawling up his throat, trying to force out words that he doesn’t want to speak. But the longer they walk side by side, the greater the urge to say something — anything — overwhelms him. 

Fuck it. “Give me some of your height,” he blurts, once they round the corner and are alone. He can see a parking garage in the near distance. “You’re too tall.” 

Jeon glances down at him, like he’s just now noticed their difference in stature. “If I would I could. I’ve ruined my back, always slouching to make myself shorter.” 

“Why would you wanna be shorter? Being tall is, like, every man’s dream,” Jihoon refuses to hide the bitter tilt to his tone. 

Jeon puts his hands in his coat pocket and shrugs. “I feel like I stand out too much. A stupid insecurity, I know.” 

_More like a humble-brag_. “Try being on my level for once,” Jihoon retorts. “You’ll want to be tall again once you realize how invisible you are to girls.” 

Jeon laughs. “That doesn’t sound like a negative to me. I wouldn’t mind being invisible.” 

“Says that guy that the entire class calls hot.” 

They get to the parking garage and walk up to the second floor. “That means nothing to me,” he says. He fishes through the pockets of his slacks and produces car keys. 

“Says the guy that the entire class calls hot,” Jihoon repeats. 

Jeon shoots him a look over his glasses. “That means nothing to me.” 

They stop at what appears to be Jeon’s car. It’s a black SUV with tinted windows. It’s not a car Jihoon expects him to drive. 

“It means nothing to the guy who has it all,” Jihoon continues, undeterred. “Looks, money, prestige, _height_. I could go on.” 

“Please don’t,” Jeon says, laughing dryly. “However I look is an unintended consequence. What matters to me is making a tangible difference in our country. Training our youth to be future providers, reducing mortality and morbidity, all of that.”

Of course. How shallow of him. Jihoon’s face flushes, this time in embarrassment and not intoxication. “Right,” he mumbles. “Sorry.” Their imbalance in maturity and age is so clear it’s palpable. He shouldn’t have had those last two glasses of soju. “I’m here talking about Japan trips and class gossip to a fucking _doctor_.” He’s too embarrassed to remember to walk back the ‘fucking’. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Jeon reaches out to grab his shoulder, hesitates, then does it anyway. “I’m flattered. I am. And your worries aren’t stupid or beneath contempt, whatever it may be.” He audibly inhales, contemplating his next words. “I’m not trying to say that I’m some flawless, perfect human. I just drank and I’m about to drive because I don’t want to leave my car here overnight, for fucks sake.” 

Jihoon cracks a smile at this. Guess he doesn’t have to walk back that ‘fucking’ after all — they’re officially on cussing basis. “You’re doing it again,” he says instead. 

Jeon considers him. “Huh?” 

“The hand-shoulder thingy. You’re doing it again.” 

Both men laugh. “I know,” Jeon says. “I almost didn’t.”

“I saw.” 

“You said it was okay.” 

“It is.” Jihoon reaches up to give the older man exaggerated shoulder-pats of his own, teasing. “I’m fucking with you. ‘S just so... impersonal.” 

Jeon laughs again. “This isn’t personal enough for you?” 

“On what planet is _this_ ” — he pats his shoulder again to support his point — “personal enough? Even my _dad_ does more than this, and he’s not touchy-feely at all.” 

“So you’re saying I should be more personal.” 

Jihoon averts his gaze as if to think this over, and then looks back and nods. “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.” 

Jeon Wonwoo gently grasps Jihoon’s jaw with both hands and, demonstrating his aforementioned bad habit, bends in half. Jihoon closes his eyes before their lips even touch. “See? Not perfect,” he hears Jeon say against him. He closes the rest of the gap.

There’s a quiet, still moment of just lips. Then Jeon tilts his head and licks into Jihoon’s mouth. Then they’re kissing — _actually_ kissing, to Jihoon’s shock — and Jihoon doesn’t want it to end. Jeon is a sensual kisser, slow and careful like everything he does, but Tipsy Jihoon wants more. He wants to take it all in before they separate and they have time to think about the consequences. He wants to make a mess of him. He lifts up onto his tippy toes, grabs the collar of Wonwoo’s trench coat, and presses harder into the kiss. The older man lets out a surprised noise, but quickly adapts and deepens it, matches Jihoon’s rigor with a tightened grip on his jaw. 

Somehow Jihoon ends up with his back against the passenger door of the SUV. Jeon is stronger than he looks, all limbs and skinny middle. That, or he’s had more to drink than he thought. Regardless of the reason, he submits to it, moving his fists from the trench coat up to Jeon’s wavy hair. He threads his fingers through, gasping as Jeon licks into him, opening him up, making him feel vulnerable and hungry. He hasn’t gotten laid in a minute, especially not with someone as attractive as Jeon Wonwoo, and he can tell; it’s as if every cell in his body is on fire, begging, _begging_ , for more. For a palm on his fattening dick. For Jeon to trap him harder between his larger body and the car. To carry him into the backseat, open him and carve him clean and replace his insides with Jeon Wonwoo. He’s feeling reckless enough to consider asking for it. 

He doesn’t. They kiss until there isn’t any air left between the both of them. Jeon finally pulls back and the two men pause to breathe in deeply for a few beats. Jihoon doesn’t open his eyes right away, but when he does he drinks in the flushed cheeks and wet eyes Jeon’s sporting. _Fuck_. He’s hard. From a kiss that wasn’t long enough (and probably never would’ve been). He clears his throat and adjusts his pants. 

“Too much?” Jeon whispers, still trying to collect himself. He fixes his coat around his neck, fusses with his hair. 

Jihoon lets out an amused huff. “Not enough,” he admits. “Be more imperfect, please.” 

Both laugh at this. “Maybe I shouldn’t,” Jeon says, mostly to himself. He picks his keys up off the ground (neither men remembering them falling in the... bustle) and jingles them. “Let me get you home. Irresponsibly.” 

“Don’t kill me.” Jihoon pulls on the passenger door handle. 

Jeon laughs. “No promises.” 

  
  


They kiss some more in the car with the engine running. Jihoon lets a moan slip, and they giggle at it when he turns beet red, before going back to kissing and feeling one another’s faces. The rest of the drive is surprisingly smooth, but Jihoon jokingly shouts and grabs onto the dashboard when Jeon turns corners, to which Jeon shouts back, “Shut up!” every time. 

Once in the lot of the apartment complex, Jihoon pats Jeon’s shoulder and says, “Thanks for the ride. And for not killing me.” 

Jeon shrugs his hand off. “Too impersonal,” he teases. 

“Fine.” Jihoon takes off the seat belt and leans over, plants a soft kiss on Jeon’s lips. “Better?” he whispers. 

“I’ll take it,” Jeon whispers back, eyes focused on Jihoon’s mouth. 

Jihoon leans back into his seat. “Thanks again. I’d ask you if you wanted to come in, but...” 

“Best not,” Jeon finishes with a wry smile. “I’ve made too many mistakes tonight already.” 

“Same.” 

There’s a moment of silence as they sit and think. 

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” Jihoon tries. “I don’t want you to regret this in the morning.” 

Jeon pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I will,” he says, blunt. “I’m breaking my contract with the program doing this.” 

Right. Jihoon looks down at his hands.

“I’m a slave to my emotions sometimes, even when I think I’m old enough to know better.” He sighs and leans his head back against the headrest. “You were difficult to avoid.” 

Jihoon glances at him, at the long stretch of his neck and the jut of his jaw. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” he repeats, but softer. “Don’t avoid me after tonight.” 

“I won’t. That won’t reverse anything I’ve done.” 

“Can I have your number?” 

Jeon looks at him. The street lamps pour into the dark car, illuminating the best features of his face. “That’s not going to make it any better.” 

“It won’t make it any worse, either,” Jihoon retorts. “As far as your contract is concerned.” It’s blunt and a little harsh, yeah, but _Jeon_ started it. “I’m not blackmailing you, by the way,” he amends. “That came out wrong.” 

Jeon snorts at this. “I know you’re not.” He fishes his phone out of his coat pocket. “OK. Here.” He extends it to Jihoon. 

Jihoon taps his contact information in, gets Jeon’s phone number, and hands it back. “Now we can stop using our school email to flirt.” 

Jeon snorts again. “True, true.” He returns his phone to its previous home. 

He grabs the door handle. “Goodnight. Don’t avoid me. You promised.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Good. See you.” 

Jihoon steps out of the car, hesitates to look at Jeon once more, drinking him all in again, before he closes the door behind him. Because despite their exchange, he still fears what Monday morning will bring him: the Dr. Jeon Wonwoo or tonight’s Jeon Wonwoo. 

  
  


* * *

_Please let me know if you got home safely_

It’s Jihoon’s first text of the morning. He sends it, then leaves his phone in the bed as he gets up and goes through his weekend routine. A hot shower, teeth brush, then setting up his notebooks and computer on his office desk to return to when he gets some breakfast. He finds Minghao making tea in the kitchen as he goes to get himself a tall glass of water. 

“You’re up early,” Jihoon says. The microwave clock says 7:12 a.m. 

Minghao shakes his overgrown fringe out of his eyes. “I’m always up early.” 

“Not when you’ve been out drinking,” Jihoon retorts. He gulps down his water, his dry throat thanking him for it with each swallow. He pours some more. “I didn’t even hear you come back.” 

“I got back at, like,” Minghao stops to think. “Four. You?” He pours the hot water he heated up on the stove into a mug, dips the tea bag into it with a spoon. 

The memory of handing Wonwoo his phone flashes inside his head. “Um,” Jihoon starts. “Like, almost 11.” 

“Did you study?” 

“No,” he admits. “I was too tired and maybe a _tiny_ bit too drunk to focus.” That, and scared that Wonwoo will never talk to him again. He’s still scared about that part, admittedly. “I’m starting now, though.” 

“Skipped out on going out with us to study, didn’t even study.” Minghao shakes his head. “Cool.” 

Jihoon flushes. “Sorry. I didn’t think I’d be so tired. Or drunk.” 

Minghao tuts playfully at him. “Whatever, man.” He lifts his cup of tea off the counter and starts to walk away, but Jieqiong bursts out of his bedroom wearing his t-shirt, socks, and not much else. Her long, ink black hair is messy with sleep. Or sex. “Oh. Right.” It’s Minghao’s turn to flush red. “Jie Jie is here.” 

“Morning!” She beams at Jihoon as she prances into the kitchen like she’s always lived here. She frowns at the tea pot. “You didn’t make me a cup?” 

“I thought you were asleep!” 

Jihoon rolls his eyes. But, of course she’s here. She always ends up here when Minghao goes out. “I’m gonna take a wild guess and assume you won’t be studying today.” 

“We’re getting breakfast,” Jieqiong answers for him. “Wanna come?” 

“ _He’ll_ be studying,” Minghao says. “C’mon. We can share the tea.” 

Jieqiong frowns at him. “Don’t speak for him.” 

Jihoon makes a concentrated point to _not_ stare at the long expanse of her bare legs as he answers, “No, he’s right. I have to study. You lovebirds have fun, though.” He finishes his second glass of water, goes to open the fridge door. 

“Fine. Don’t study too hard. Take breaks every hour.” Jieqiong retreats from the kitchen. “It’s important for your health.” 

With that, the two tread back into Minghao’s bedroom and close the door behind him. Must be nice. A defined relationship with no need for secrecy, no real-world consequences. Meanwhile... 

Jihoon makes himself some toast and coffee, then returns to his desk and gets himself situated in the chair. He’s too afraid of disappointment. He’s too afraid, so he lets his phone rest, face down, on his mattress while he eats and studies. He puts his headphones on when Minghao and Jieqiong’s laughter becomes a little too loud through the walls, and thrusts himself fully into his outlines and digital textbooks. 

It’s early afternoon and during his third break of the day when he finally builds the strength to check his texts. There are ten notifications from his family’s group chat, two from Minghao, and one from Wonwoo. One from Wonwoo. Jihoon immediately taps it and scans the screen. 

_By the grace of God, I got back in one piece. Did you wake up with a headache like I did?_

A flush of relief. The text was sent 20 minutes after Jihoon’s first — meaning it’s safe to go ahead and respond without looking too needy. Yes. These are the games he plays. 

_But did the car get back in one piece? & nope. I’m good at holding my liquor maybe lol _

He doesn’t have to wait too long for an answer. 

_Yes it did lol._

_Lucky. I’ve had a pounding headache since I woke up._

Jihoon laughs at the screen. 

_Also._

_Sorry for last night. I know I crossed a boundary that we can’t un-cross. I hope you don’t think I’m creepy._

Quite the opposite. If it were up to Jihoon, Wonwoo would’ve followed him in. Minghao and Jieqiong in one bedroom, he and Wonwoo in the other. He tried to fight his boner off last night, but the only thing that truly solved the issue was jerking off. 

_Not creepy at all. i told you it doesn’t have to be a big deal._

Fuck it. 

_i wanted to go ahead and invite you in._

There. He said it. Like Wonwoo said, boundaries were crossed that cannot be un-crossed, so he might as well stray further into the unknown. 

_Jihoon. You know I would’ve._

Jihoon doesn’t know why the seemingly authoritative use of his name is so hot to him, but it is. A familiar heat stirs deep in his abdomen, and he tries to will himself to behave. This is not the type of distraction he needs today; he already missed a day of studying being led around by his dick. 

_You don’t know how difficult it was for me. I wanted to drive you to my place._

Fuuck. The best idea Jihoon ever had was getting five hours of studying done before picking up his phone. He takes his phone to his office chair and sits down, immediately pressing his legs tightly together. As if that’ll do anything to help. He’s half-hard now and very distracted. 

_you should’ve done it._

_i was going to ask you to just fuck me in the car._

There’s another quick response from Wonwoo: 

_Jesus._

_I’d love to hear you say that in person._

Jihoon leans his head back in the chair and shuts his eyes tightly. He’s of half the mind to ask for Wonwoo’s address and get his fantasies over with. There’s a high (nearly 100%) chance that Wonwoo will give it, too. But Rational Mind is stronger this time around, and it’s telling him that he needs to focus on his studies. He can get laid anytime, but the exam will only be on one day and will never happen again. Sometimes it fucking sucks being responsible. He opens his eyes and raises his cell to his face. 

_Gladly. hold that thought._

_Next time you're free._

_AKA hopefully next weekend_

He doesn’t tap out of the conversation thread until he gets a response. 

_I’m a patient man._

Considering the amount of time he had to invest to become a doctor _and_ a professor, Jihoon is inclined to believe him. But is _he_ that patient? 

_I’m going to have to be_ , Jihoon thinks. Both for sex and for his PhD. 

The grades from the cardiology exam are released on Sunday, which means that the class has time to privately absorb their results before their return on Monday. Jihoon celebrates his 92 with an extra hour of sleep. Minghao celebrates with bursting into Jihoon’s room that Sunday night to screech about his 98 and jump up and down on Jihoon’s bed. 

“Fuck you,” Jihoon shouts, trying to kick him off. 

“And guess what Jun got?” Minghao says, still jumping up and down and tossing the smaller man this way and that. 

“I don’t care, dude, c’mon, get off,” Jihoon whines. 

“A 90. Fuck him. Fucker. I’m _so_ going to rub it in tomorrow.” He suddenly stops jumping. “Actually. I’m going to go rub it in right now. Lemme get my phone.” He hops off the bed and sprints out of Jihoon’s room. 

Jihoon rolls his eyes and pulls his blanket over his head. Definitely the side of Xu Minghao he hates the most. 

And then there’s the side of Jung-hyun he _loves_ the most. She ambles to her seat Monday morning with two cups of coffee and puts one down in front of Jihoon. “Hi,” she says shyly. Her hair is pulled in a high ponytail, strands of hair purposely free and framing her small face. 

“Hi,” he says back. He picks up the coffee and eyes it. 

“Black, don’t worry,” Jung-hyun tells him. She sits in her seat, turns slightly towards him. “How did you do?” 

Jihoon nods his thanks and takes a sip. Fresh and scorching hot. “Much better than I thought. You?” 

She still has a shy, apologetic smile on her face. “85.” 

“So much for remediation, huh?” 

Jung-hyun nudges his shin with the point of her heels. “Yeah. Sorry.”

He smiles at her. It’s difficult to feel slighted when she’s looking so cute. “All forgiven, now that I have this.” He raises the coffee up, and Jung-hyun giggles. 

“Sooo,” Seungkwan sing-songs as he approaches his own seat and plops down. He leans forward to look past Jihoon. “How did you do, Hyunie?” 

She puts a thumbs up. “All is well!” 

Seungkwan cheers loudly enough to elicit looks from nearby students. “That’s what I like to hear. Brains and beauty — the best a man could ask for.” He elbows Jihoon and winks dramatically. 

Jung-hyun giggles. Jihoon shoves Seungkwan away with an eyeroll. “Goodbye, Seungkwan,” he says.

“I’m afraid I can’t go anywhere, considering this is my seat,” Seungkwan retorts. “But thanks. You two will have to get your privacy _after_ lectures.” 

Jihoon ignores him and opens his laptop when their guest lecturer walks in. 

The rest of the day is the same, long drawl of lectures with studying in between; after their final class of the day, in the evening when the sun is beginning to fall behind the campus buildings, Jihoon meets Junhui and Minghao out in the hallway. Unsurprisingly, they’re still bickering about the cardiology exam, Minghao still finding ways to rub it in. “Shut up,” Junhui shouts in Chinese, shoving Minghao away from him when Minghao drapes an arm over his shoulders and whispers something in his ear. It’s one of the few phrases Jihoon can understand. 

“How did you mix up mitral regurgitation and aortic regurgitation, dude?” Minghao switches back to Korean. “One is _holosystolic_ and the other is _diastolic_. Out of all the questions to miss?” 

“I know,” Junhui groans. “I made a dumb mistake. I wasn’t thinking when I read the question, okay? I saw that the patient had a history of endocarditis and _both_ mitral and aortic regurgitation can be caused by that. Now leave me alone!” 

“You didn’t see that we hear it in the left _upper_ sternal border?”

“You can hear mitral regurg on the left, too!” 

“On that note,” Jihoon says loudly, waving a hand in front of their faces. They both turn their heads to look at him at once, as if being brought out of a school-induced trance. “I’m going to go eat at the dining hall and study. If you guys are ready to move on and review our _lung_ lectures, you know where to find me.” 

Junhui throws his hands up. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do all day, but this fucker over here keeps bullying me.” Minghao calls him stupid in Chinese again, trying to throw his arms back over his shoulders, and when Junhui shoves him away he bursts into giggles. Junhui tries to fight the sloppy smile spreading across his face, but when Minghao doesn’t stop giggling he cracks and starts laughing, too. “Go away! I hate you! You’re like an annoying little brother, my god.” 

Okay. Jihoon has seen enough. “Alright, I’m off.” He’s pretty sure they don’t even hear him as they continue to go back and forth, and that’s his cue to walk away. So he does. He can hear them bickering all the way down the hallway, his only relief being when he walks outside and onto a bustling campus. 

His feet carry him to the health professions office building, before he has time to process what he’s doing. He comes to his senses when he’s walked past the empty receptionist desk and is in the hallway with all of the professors' offices on both sides of him. He’s not even sure what his objective is. He doesn’t have anything to talk about with Wonwoo, especially considering he won’t be teaching again for another week and a half. And he doesn’t even have anything _non_ -school related to bring up. 

There’s a deeper part of him, though, that wants to scramble to find anything to talk about, just to see if Wonwoo will treat him coldly or not. It’s the only way to know for sure if Wonwoo has come to his own senses and realizes that he’s made the worst idea making out and engaging in softcore sexting with a student. It’s a high possibility that he has, since Jihoon hasn’t heard from him since his final text — _I’m a patient man_ — on Saturday. A feeling of dread tightens Jihoon’s chest, dread that pushes him to decide that he wants to rip the metaphorical bandaid off. If there’s a cold, distant Wonwoo behind that office door, at least Jihoon will know the truth, and he can proceed with the rest of his graduate school life ducking Wonwoo out of pure embarassment. 

Wonwoo’s door is ajar. Jihoon doesn’t hear any voices inside. He takes a moment to collect himself, then brings a fist up and knocks. “Doctor?” he says, voice soft. 

“Yeah, come in,” a deep voice answers. 

Okay. He’s doing this. With absolutely _nothing_ to talk about. _Great idea, Jihoon_. 

Jihoon slips in through the opening, immediately pushes the door closed with his hand. Wonwoo is sitting behind his desk, this time not wearing any glasses, his dark hair straight and in a slicked-back side part. He’s wearing a fitted, black turtleneck, a large-faced, silver watch on his wrist. Jihoon didn’t think it was possible for Wonwoo to look any better than he always has; it takes all the air out of his lungs as if he’s been punched, leaving him defenseless. Fuck, he’s handsome. 

There must be ten seconds of awkward silence, the two staring at one another, before Wonwoo speaks. “Good evening,” he says. As dry and blasé as ever. He’s not sure if that’s a good sign or not. 

“Um,” Jihoon finally finds his voice, cheeks growing hotter by the second. “G’evening.” 

Another few seconds of awkward silence. Wonwoo's straight mouth cracks into a hint of a smile. “You can sit, you know.” 

Jihoon scrambles to the seat and sits down. “Yeah, sorry,” he says. “I just, um.” 

“Feeling regretful?” His voice lowers to almost a whisper. “We can forget any of it happ —” 

“No, no,” Jihoon interrupts. “I don’t regret it. Any of it.”

Wonwoo face returns to it’s natural, impassive state. The worst thing about it all is that Jihoon has no way to decipher how he feels. Wonwoo is an impenetrable wall, so calm and collected that it feels like nothing can visibly startle him. The quiet spurs the verbal diarrhea in Jihoon again, and he continues with, “I just thought. I ‘dunno. I came here to see.” 

“To see,” Wonwoo parrots. 

“If you were. Feeling regretful, that is. If you’d pretend nothing happened.” 

“You know I can’t do that.” 

He doesn’t, actually. But Jihoon nods and ducks his head anyway. 

“Jihoon,” Wonwoo says. Jihoon looks up at him, tries not to shy away from the direct eye contact. “Really. I don’t want you to think you’re obligated, or your grades depend on this, or whatever you may be feeling. I made a mistake, and I know I have to take responsibility —” 

“— Stop,” Jihoon raises a hand. “Stop talking.” Surprisingly, this shuts Wonwoo up instantly. There’s a hint of concern to his expression now, but he remains quiet. “I don’t think that. _At all_. My grades are determined by the exam software, and I definitely don’t feel obligated.” He pauses to consider his next words. “I already told you it doesn’t have to be a big deal. I am —” Fuck, he’s really doing this. His cheeks begin to burn again when he finishes with, “I am very obviously attracted to you. If I didn’t have that exam to prepare for I would’ve asked if I could come over, but like an idiot I had to force myself to stay home and study.” 

Wonwoo cracks a smile again. “Not stupid at all.” 

“I wanted to know if you still felt the same,” Jihoon continues, undeterred. “That’s why I’m here. Not to tell you I regret it.” 

“Yeah,” Wonwoo answers immediately, voice almost in disbelief like he can’t believe Jihoon is asking this question. “I’m the one who started this.” 

The image of Wonwoo cupping his jaw, bending his long body in half to press a kiss to Jihoon’s mouth, plays inside of his head, so realistic he can feel the phantom touch of Wonwoo’s large hands. 

“We were drunk,” Jihoon tries. “It could’ve been a spur of the moment kinda thing.” 

“Being drunk is not an excuse,” Wonwoo retorts. “Nor does it make me do things sober me wouldn’t want to do. And, besides, I wasn’t drunk when we were texting.” 

Jihoon nods, averts his eyes down to his lap. “Okay,” he says. “True.”

Wonwoo considers him. “You don’t believe me?” 

“I do,” Jihoon says. “‘M just a little embarrassed now.” He laughs shyly. “I think I was just overthinking things.” That’s an understatement. 

“And you told me this doesn’t have to be a big deal, what, three times now?” Wonwoo teases. 

Jihoon laughs again. “I know, I’m a hypocrite, I guess.” 

He sees Wonwoo stand up from his chair in his periphery. Wonwoo rounds the desk, stops beside Jihoon to place a hand on his shoulder. He gives two, exaggerated pats. “There, there.” Both men share a chuckle at this. “I have a meeting to go to, but we can pick this back up over the phone, if you’d like.” 

Jihoon stands up, scooting the chair back. “Thanks for humoring me,” he says. 

Wonwoo drapes an arm around his shoulders, pulls him into a hug, clearly to ease his worries. “My open-door policy doesn’t discriminate,” he says into Jihoon’s hair. 

Jihoon continues to feel like an idiot, through dinner at the dining hall, through his late-night study session in the library, even as Minghao comes to join him so they can quiz one another. Finally, he breaks, and after a hot shower and getting comfortable in his bed, he taps on Wonwoo’s name (‘WW’ in his phone) and starts tapping. 

_If things weren’t weird before i definitely made it weird now._

_right?_

It doesn’t take long of wallowing in his shame for his phone to light up with a response. He looks away from the movie playing on his TV (that he’s barely paying attention to, anyway) to tap on the message. 

_It was cute. And a relief._

_I thought you got cold feet when I didn’t hear from you_. 

Funny how that works. 

_I thought the same when i didnt hear from you, too lol._

_I guess we’re both idiots, then._

Jihoon smiles at the screen. 

_What are you doing up so late? Studying?_

He looks at the time on his phone. 1:32 a.m. Time goes fast when you’re stressed. 

_not anymore_

_Ive been up thinking of what to say to you, honestly._

There isn’t a fast response this time, so Jihoon returns to staring blankly at the movie. It’s a Marvel film he’s already seen two times before. And he can hear Minghao talking to somebody in Mandarin inside the other room. 

_Up late thinking about me? I’m flattered._

_You’re too cute._

_cute?_

_i want to be more than cute_

Jihoon gets another text quickly. 

_You are. I keep thinking about how sexy you looked against my car._

_Wanted to take you home so bad_

It’s only Monday night. Only Monday night. Jihoon promised himself — and Wonwoo — that they have to wait until the upcoming weekend. He doesn’t know if he has that type of resolve anymore, though, the horny part of his brain taking over faster than Rational Mind can. The irrational voice inside his head is telling him that he doesn’t have an exam this week... he can go get some dick, come back, and be just fine. It’s not going to fuck up his schedule. Irrational Voice is winning. 

_let me come over then._

Seems like Wonwoo has the same idea in mind, because there’s another brief moment of waiting before he responds with his address, and then a, _If you insist_. 

  
  


Sneaking out without Minghao noticing is the easy part. Jihoon’s already fresh from his shower, so he pulls on a clean t-shirt and some jeans, paired with a plain pair of black sandals. He takes a moment to settle in his car, fussing with his hair in the rearview mirror, before he takes the half-hour drive to Wonwoo’s apartment. Now, all he’s thinking about is how horny he is. How horny and desperate he’s been to get laid without even realizing it. It’s so humiliating to think of now, but some nights he’s been so horny he got a hard-on from hearing Jieqiong’s muffled moans from Minghao’s bedroom. Disgusting, he knows. He could barely look her in the face for a few weeks after each night. Forcing himself to go to sleep without masturbating was the best he could do to rectify the guilt. 

Wonwoo’s apartment is on the third floor, tucked away in a corner, much like his office. When he opens the door, dressed in a loose t-shirt of his own and a pair of sweats, glasses sitting precariously on his sharp nose, Jihoon finds it a very difficult task to not push his way in and shove him against the wall. Luckily, Wonwoo seems to pick up on this from Jihoon’s heavy expression, pupils already blown wide and mouth wet from licking them; he does the job for him, grabbing Jihoon by the neck of his shirt and pulling him in. 

Jihoon follows pliantly, watches as Wonwoo simultaneously slams the door shut with one hand, holds Jihoon against the wall of the foyer with the other. Then Wonwoo’s crowding into his space, crouching over to press his lips to Jihoon’s. The kiss, unlike their previous, doesn’t start with a pause or a moment of hesitation. This one is hungry, with Jihoon licking fervently into Wonwoo’s mouth, arms stretched up and around Wonwoo’s shoulders to tug him down further. He has to get on his tippy-toes to grant better access, and if it wasn’t so hot that Wonwoo was tall as fuck Jihoon would have the mind to feel embarrassed. 

Wonwoo makes a low noise in his throat when Jihoon sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, a noise that sends a pool of heat straight down into Jihoon’s abdomen, fattens his dick. Jihoon slides a hand down Wonwoo’s chest, over his waistband, and palms at him, relieved to find that Wonwoo’s getting hard himself. Wonwoo makes another brief noise, pulls back just enough to breathe, “Jihoon, fuck.” 

It’s hands down the hottest thing Jihoon has heard in several years. His voice is normally deep, but it somehow falls even further, breathy and desperate. Jihoon wants to hear more. He wants Wonwoo to lose any semblance of control he has, wants that impenetrable wall to crumble. Wants that face that always looks neutral, impassive, to look at him like he’s going to swallow him whole. 

Jihoon kicks his sandals off and falls to his knees. He’s looking up at Wonwoo as he experimentally grabs the waistband of his sweatpants and tugs at it. “I want to suck your dick,” he says. “Can I?”

Wonwoo places his forearms on the wall where Jihoon was for leverage, groans and ducks his head. “You know the answer to that question, Jihoon.” God, he loves how his name sounds on Wonwoo’s tongue. “But, here?” 

Jihoon answers by tugging his sweatpants and briefs down in one fell swoop, just enough to release his dick. Wonwoo’s fully hard now, the thick length of him rising up towards his stomach. Jihoon’s heard, in passing, that skinny men tend to have bigger dicks, but he’s never been with enough men to prove or reject that theory; and all the men he’s been with were never as skinny as Jeon Wonwoo is. It’s anecdotal evidence, of course, but Wonwoo definitely isn’t small. His dick is thick and long, and Jihoon already knows there’s no way he’s going to be able to get all of him into his mouth. That’s never stopped him from trying, though. 

Wonwoo begins to say something, but it’s instantly forgotten when Jihoon wraps a firm hand around the base of him and takes the head of his dick into his mouth. “ _Shit_ ,” he groans, head falling between his shoulders. “You don’t waste any time,” he huffs out in a laugh. 

_Says the man that didn’t even say hello before he put his tongue in my mouth_ , Jihoon thinks. Not that he’s upset over it. Knowing that Wonwoo couldn’t even wait or speak before getting his hands on him helps feed the erection straining against his jeans, begging to be touched. 

So Jihoon’s response is tonguing the slit, earning himself another deep moan. The head of his dick is already heavy in Jihoon’s mouth, his lips stretched around the crown. He flattens his tongue on the underside, out of the way, before he takes Wonwoo in deeper, his free hand holding Wonwoo’s thigh for leverage. As predicted, he doesn’t get far before his gag reflex threatens to trigger, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm, sucking earnestly, looking up to meet Wonwoo’s gaze. 

Wonwoo threads fingers through Jihoon’s hair, watching him as he’s being watched with his lips parted, eyes deep and dark, face beginning to flush. “That’s good,” he moans. “So good. Never - _ah_ \- thought I’d ever get to see you on your knees.” 

Jihoon pops off his dick and says, breathless, a string of saliva following his bottom lip, “Never thought I’d get to suck your cock,” before he spits, uses it as slip to jack Wonwoo off where his mouth can’t reach. Then Jihoon’s back on him, taking his girth as far down as he can without choking on it, grip making up for the rest of his length. Above him, Wonwoo can’t control the approving noises that slip out, intermittently whispers words of encouragement. 

It doesn’t take long for Jihoon’s jaw to get tired. And he’s beginning to get so hard it hurts, tries for some kind of relief by moving his hand on Wonwoo’s thigh to press the heel of his palm against his erection. “Fuck, fuck,” Wonwoo’s saying between gasps. “If you keep this up, I’m - _god_ \- not going to last much longer.” Jihoon ignores the ache of his jaw to take Wonwoo’s dick further, further, until he actually chokes and his vision blurs with tears. “ _Jihoon_ , shit, you’re - Y’look so good. _I’m gonna come_.”

This will go down in history as one of the many mistakes Desperately Horny Jihoon makes, spurred on by Wonwoo’s endless chatter, by staying on him, sucking fervently at the head before sinking back down, grip on the base of his cock twisting, grip tight. He doesn’t have the brain capacity to consider the consequences before Wonwoo grabs a hold of his hair, repeating that he’s about to come over and over until it blends into a prolonged groan. He’s warning him, he knows, but he ignores it, lets Wonwoo come in his mouth in spurts, doesn’t give himself a chance to taste or regret before he swallows. 

“Holy shit,” Wonwoo gasps. His cheeks are flushed a light pink, lips wet and ajar, eyes screwed shut. An incredulous laugh escapes him. “You didn’t.” 

Jihoon comes up and takes gulps of air, doesn’t realize how long he’s been without it until he’s able to breathe again. “I did,” he says between breaths. He leans back on his haunches, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He can’t really believe it himself. Fuck, he’s painfully hard. 

He moves to free himself from his jeans, takes himself into his wet hand. Then he’s jerking himself off in the middle of Wonwoo’s foyer, riled up over having sucked his cock. Another thing he knows he’ll feel the burn of shame from later, but in the moment he cares about nothing but his own release. “Wonwoo,” he whimpers, voice going high and light. It’s the first time he allows himself to say Wonwoo’s first name aloud. 

Wonwoo gets on his own knees, says, “You’re fucking incredible,” before pulling him in for a heated kiss. His other hand replaces Jihoon’s hand on himself and begins to stroke him, long fingers wrapping tight around his length. Honestly, there’s not enough slip, and Wonwoo barely gets to do much, but it's enough to pull him over the edge; Jihoon breaks the kiss to bury his head in the crook of Wonwoo’s neck, trying hard to contain his whimpers as he comes into Wonwoo’s hand, on the front of his shirt. 

“Wow,” Jihoon gasps, trying to return to earth. “I. Shit. I promise I usually last much longer than that.” 

Wonwoo vibrates against him when he laughs. “Likewise. You were. You were sexy as fuck.” 

This time Jihoon laughs, shyly. “You can’t ever call me cute again now.” 

“You’ll always be cute,” Wonwoo turns his head to say against his cheek, then brings Jihoon’s head up by his chin to kiss him. 

Wonwoo changes his shirt before he shows Jihoon his tabby cat, Rose, and the rest of his apartment. It’s a deep gold and burgundy theme, dark even with all the lights on. There are two rooms, one his bedroom and the other his study. In both rooms are bookcases, each filled with medical textbooks, journals, and novels. Wonwoo watches, quiet, as Jihoon runs his fingers over the spines of them, stops to pull one out. “ _Theory and Reality_ ,” Jihoon reads the cover aloud. “You like philosophy?” 

“It’s interesting,” Wonwoo supplies. “I haven’t had a lot of time to read recently, but I do a chapter or two in my free time.” 

Jihoon knows absolutely nothing about philosophy. So he puts the book back and considers the other titles before turning away from the bookcase. “I should probably head back,” he starts. “I have to be up in —” He pulls his phone out of his jean pocket and checks the time “ — three and a half hours.” 

Wonwoo nods. “Okay. Sorry for having you out so late.” 

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “We both know it was all my idea to come.” He steps up to Wonwoo, leans on his chest when Wonwoo drapes an arm around him and pulls him in. “See you soon?” He hopes it doesn’t sound as needy as he thinks. 

“You know where to find me,” Wonwoo says into the hair on top of his head. 

  
  


Very quickly, Jihoon’s life becomes a blur of lectures, studying, and finding private moments to fuck around with Wonwoo. Their first night seems to have triggered something almost primal in him, has him frequently asking to come by on random, late nights. And Wonwoo almost always matches his enthusiasm, will text to invite him if Jihoon hasn’t already asked. For the first time since Jung-hyun, Jihoon is getting regularly laid, and it loosens the tense muscles in Jihoon’s body that he never realized were tight. 

One evening Jihoon comes over with chinese takeout, sucks Wonwoo off in his bed, touches himself as Wonwoo opens him up with his long fingers. Then they lie in the sheets naked, Jihoon pressed against Wonwoo’s side as Wonwoo cradles him close. “I’m surprised,” Jihoon is saying. “That you’re not dating, or married, or something. When I first saw you I thought to myself, ‘there’s no way this man is single’.” 

Wonwoo huffs a laugh. “Well, I _was_ married, once upon a time.” 

Jihoon cranes his neck to look up at him. “Oh.” Another foot in his mouth moment. “I’m sorry. I mean, for bringing it up.” 

Wonwoo shakes his head. “It’s okay. It’s not a sore spot or anything. She was the daughter of a family friend, and our parents pressured us into dating.” He shrugs. “Not to say I didn’t end up loving her. But it felt like our marriage was built on a lie.” 

Jihoon says nothing, just listens, so Wonwoo pushes on. “I think she felt it, too. We both decided it was better to divorce than to make it more complicated with kids.” 

“Were your parents upset?” 

Wonwoo’s lips twist into a wry smile. “To say they were upset... is an understatement. My mom didn’t speak to me for months after I broke the news. My dad only spoke to me to tell me what a big mistake I made. If they knew I started seeing men after our divorce I would’ve been shunned, I think.” 

It’s heavy. Too heavy for Jihoon to have anything of value to say. “I’m sorry,” he says instead. “That’s tough. How are your parents now? Did they get over it?” 

“I don’t think they’ll ever get over it. They’re still friends with her parents, and she comes by my family home with them sometimes. It’s been,” Wonwoo raises his eyes to the ceiling to think about it. “Three? Years since our divorce. Around the time I became a professor.”

The job Wonwoo sees as his true calling. Maybe that’s the reason for the divorce, too; he was seeking his true desires, finally taking his life into his own hands. It’s commendable. Inspiring, almost. Like living proof that it’s never too late to drastically alter the course you’ve been set on. 

“That must be hard,” Jihoon says. “To still have to see her family.” 

“It’s more of an inconvenience than anything else. My parents won’t ever shut up about our divorce if they keep coming around and reminding them of what they’ve lost. They’re impossible to please, them.” He turns his head to look down at Jihoon. “What about you? Your parents must be over the moon that you’re in medical school.” 

Jihoon allows the topic change, answering, “They’re happy, yeah, but they were a little confused at first. I was always making music or messing around with instruments when I was little. They thought I was going to go to an arts school and become a musician, or something. Both my brother and I, actually. He’s into photography.” 

“Why didn’t you?” 

“It’s a hobby,” Jihoon says. “I do those things because I like doing them. I don’t want my hobby to become my career. Then it’s not a hobby anymore, y’know?” 

Wonwoo nods to this. “That’s true. I never thought of it that way.” 

“Yeah. So once they got over the confusion and saw that I scored high on the Suneng, they became super supportive.” Jihoon laughs at the memory. “They were happier than _me_ when I got in. They celebrated for, like, a month.” 

Wonwoo smiles. “That’s sweet.”

Jihoon’s phone buzzes on the nightstand beside him. He picks it up and checks the screen, sees a text from Minghao. _Hey where are you? I invited Junhui over. We’re going to go over this question bank i got from the upperclassmen_. Of course. Jihoon forgets that it’s a school night, and he’s here wasting time with a man more than a decade his senior. 

“Fuck,” he says to his screen, then turns it off. “I have to go. We have an exam on Friday and my roommate wants to study.” He sits up and starts scrambling for his clothes. 

“What’s it over?” Wonwoo sits up against the headboard. 

“Nephrology,” Jihoon says. “It’s a lot of material.” 

“Don’t let me distract you from your studies,” Wonwoo says. “Let me know if you need any help.” 

“Thanks, doctor.” 

Wonwoo follows him to the door in a pair of shorts and no shirt, gives Jihoon a chaste kiss on his lips after Jihoon gets his shoes on. “See you soon?” Jihoon asks against his mouth. 

“Text me.” 

Jihoon can’t help the butterflies in his stomach when he slowly backs out onto the welcome mat, watches Wonwoo with a dumb grin on his face as Wonwoo watches him. For something that’s not supposed to be a big deal, it’s getting harder to keep his cool. 

The study session is difficult to get through without his mind wandering back to thoughts of Wonwoo. Minghao doesn’t ask him where he’s been, just jumps straight into it with firing off questions. They’re in the living room, Junhui and Minghao sharing the longer couch, Jihoon settled in the love seat. Jihoon’s not the only one that’s distracted, though; after every couple of questions, Minghao will pick up his phone, read the screen, and start tapping away. Junhui allows it the first few times, but Jihoon can see him getting more and more annoyed up until he snatches the phone from Minghao’s hand. 

“Can you _please_ stop texting her? You guys can make up later. We need to study,” Junhui says. 

Minghao tries to snatch the phone back, but Junhui pulls it up out of reach. “Dude, give it back,” Minghao says. “I will rip up this question bank.” 

“Stop texting her!” 

“Make up?” Jihoon asks. “What happened? Trouble in Mr. and Mrs. Genius paradise?” 

“They argued over some stupid shit and now he won’t stop going back and forth with her,” Junhui answers, still trying to hold the phone away from Minghao as Minghao climbs over him to get it. “The conversation is obviously going nowhere, but he won’t give it up!”

Minghao manages to pry his phone away from Junhui, falls back onto his side of the couch with a grumble. “It’s _not_ stupid, okay? She doesn’t want me to be in contact with my exes while she’s still friends with her last boyfriend! How is that fair?” 

“Difference is that _your_ ex is still in love with you,” Junhui deadpans. “Hers isn’t. He’s got a girlfriend.” 

“My ex isn’t even in the _country_!” Minghao cries. “She’s a friend, and we’ll always only be friends, because she was way too overbearing as a girlfriend.” 

“So you’re never going back to China?” 

Minghao glares at him. “You’re starting to sound like her. Shut up. It still stands that she’ll only ever be my friend. I’m not even attracted to her anymore.” 

“Did you start this argument?” Jihoon tries to interject. 

“I was pointing out the hypocrisy when she asked me to stop texting my ex, and she blew up on me,” Minghao explains to Jihoon. “I don’t think our exes’ feelings or relationship status changes anything. Her ex can still cheat on his girlfriend with her; having a boyfriend or girlfriend never stopped anybody.” 

“It’s stupid, right?” Junhui asks Jihoon. “Why can’t they both just stop texting their exes? Is this the hill they want to die on?” 

Jihoon shrugs, nods his agreement. “That would solve it, I think.” 

Jihoon’s phone lights up as soon as Minghao begins to explain why that definitely won’t work, and he fades out of the conversation to check the notification. Instead of the _WW_ he was secretly hoping for, Jung-hyun’s name pops up. Speaking of exes. Or, rather, past flings. He taps on the text. 

_Wanna study at my place tomorrow?? Seungkwan cancelled on me and I need a study partner. :(_

“You’ve become a complete idiot since you and Jieqiong started dating, you know that?” Junhui is saying. “This is so dumb. Can we study without distractions now?” 

Minghao shoves Junhui’s legs with his foot. “You’re jealous. Jealous that she’s around more.” 

Jihoon reads Jung-hyun’s text several times, thinking, thinking, weighing his options. He hasn’t studied with her in a minute, actually. She and Seungkwan became closer study buddies when he and Jung-hyun stopped seeing one another, leaving Jihoon with Minghao and Junhui. Well. It could be productive, he thinks. She was good at keeping them on topic, unlike the two buffoons he’s with right now. 

_Sounds good to me. Minghao got a question bank from an upperclassman. i can bring it with me._

“Yeah, I am,” Junhui retorts, undeterred. “You can’t function when you have a girlfriend. It drives me crazy.” 

“I still hang out with you all the time,” Minghao shoots back. “We’re with each other almost everyday, dude.” 

“Sitting in class all day doesn’t count as us being together all the time,” Junhui says. “We’re in Student Mode when we’re in the lecture hall.”

Minghao rolls his eyes. “We’re still with each other even if we’re not talking. This is semantics.” 

Jihoon gets another text. He looks away from the argument to read it. 

_Omg cool. Thanks, hyung :)_

She’s cute even through texts. Jihoon hates this. 

“It’s not semantics,” Junhui insists. “It doesn’t count if we’re not even paying attention to each other.” 

“What do you want from me, dude? To follow you around all day? You wanna move in? Shower and sleep together?” Minghao shoves him with his foot again when Junhui looks away and clenches his jaw. “I’m arguing with my girlfriend and now my best friend?” 

Junhui sighs. “Whatever. You don’t get it. Let’s study, please.” 

“No, I _don’t_ get it,” Minghao continues. “So explain it to me. What do you want? Tell me.” 

Junhui meets his eyes again, expression serious. “I told you. You lose your mind when you’re dating somebody.” He switches to Mandarin, and Minghao sits and stares as he speaks. 

“Oh, c’mon,” Jihoon says, exasperated. “Don’t leave me on a cliffhanger. Keep talking in Korean, please!” 

They’re not even paying attention to him anymore, if they ever were; Junhui’s explaining something to Minghao in their mother tongue, and Jihoon only catches random words and phrases. Time, too much, not enough. He gives up quickly, though, and gathers his study material and the question bank to go study in the quiet of his room. 

  
  


Hindsight is 20/20. When Jihoon thinks back on it now, he finds only the good memories, the ones where he and Jung-hyun are laughing so hard they cry, or the Marvel movie nights they shared, the mornings when he wakes up and she’s standing in his room stark naked, soft breasts lit by the sun that pours in from between the blinds. He doesn’t think of the bad memories, the days they’d argue because Jihoon won’t commit, won’t tell her that he really does like her the way she likes him, that she’s not just somebody he fucks, in fear that if he does he’ll lose it all the next day. Ironically enough, it was his inability to communicate that killed what they’d grown. 

Jung-hyun’s hair is back in her signature ponytail, wisps of hair framing her face. Jihoon tries not to stare, but it’s hard when Jung-hyun meets his eyes, giggles, and then shyly looks back at her notes. Finally, Jung-hyun smiles softly at him, asks, “Is there something on my face?” 

Jihoon feels his cheeks burn. “No,” he says. “Sorry.” He looks at the outline in front of him. They’re in her bedroom, because her roommates are out in the common area, cooking and watching TV. He hasn’t been in her room since the very last time they argued and decided that being friends will be easier to bear. It looks the same as it always has, tidy and simple, a collage of her family and friends up on the wall above her desk. They’re sitting on the rug, notes in their laps. 

Jung-hyun lets out a troubled sigh. “I knew it,” she says. 

Jihoon looks at her again. “Huh?” 

“It’s different than with Seungkwan,” she explains. “I can’t focus.” 

“I’m being weird, I know,” Jihoon says. “I’ll stop staring, sorry.” 

Jung-hyun laughs, head tilting, a cascade of her dark hair falling over her shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says, voice turning breathy. “I keep looking at you, too. It’s weird to see you in my room again.” 

Jihoon smiles. “I know, right? I was thinking the same thing. It’s been forever.” 

They fall into comfortable silence. Jihoon lets his gaze trail down to her bare legs, notices that if there wasn’t a book sitting on her lap, he’d be able to see the skin of her thighs. He’s finally getting laid but can’t stop thinking about stupid things. He forces himself to look back at the outline. Thyrotoxicosis. Bad. Really bad. 

“Do you ever think about it?” She breaks the quiet. “How we were before?” 

Fuck. So much for staying focused. “Yeah,” Jihoon answers honestly. “Seungkwan still thinks we’re a thing.” 

“That’s Seungkwan for you. Nosy.” 

He feels his heartbeat start to pick up when Jung-hyun shifts to sit right beside him, close enough for him to smell her perfume. And he and Wonwoo aren’t exclusive — they aren’t even dating — but he thinks of Wonwoo. It makes this feel like a mistake, the excitement he feels when Jung-hyun leans her head onto his shoulder, her soft hair tickling his arm. He was just in Wonwoo’s bed the other day, _cuddling_ while they shared their pasts, sheets twisted around their naked bodies. 

“I was rushing you,” Jung-hyun is saying. “You weren’t ready, but I wasn’t listening to you.” 

Jihoon raises a tentative hand up to stroke her head, fingers playing in the ponytail. “I wasn’t saying much,” he admits. “It’s not like you knew how I felt.”

“But I could sense it. I pretended like I didn’t because I was hoping you’d tell me something. _Anything_. Even if you admitted that you saw us as friends with benefits, or sex friends, or whatever, I’d at least hear what’s going on inside your head. But we’d... we’d fight, and you’d stop talking.”

“I did that a lot,” Jihoon supplies, wry. 

Jung-hyun lifts her head off his shoulder to look at him, gaze searching. “Can you tell me now? What did you think of me?” 

_That you’re way out of my league. That you’re so much smarter than me. That you’re so good with your words and too good to be true and I’m so fucking afraid of getting hurt_. 

“I haven’t changed,” Jihoon says, voice cracking. “I’m better as a friend.” 

She doesn’t answer right away. Her wide eyes still search his face for any expression, any hint of affection or grief or remorse. The silence is almost deafening, Jihoon waiting for her to blow up on him and tell him to get the fuck out. That it was a mistake ever inviting him to ‘study’. That it was a mistake ever meeting him. 

“Figures,” she answers, then turns away. 

Jihoon watches Wonwoo’s long, thin fingers as they chop up some green peppers on a cutting board, wills his cock to behave when he remembers how they were previously buried inside him. Wonwoo had texted him a couple of hours prior, asked, _Are you studying right now? I’m making dinner and would like some company_ . Jihoon was, indeed, in the library reviewing the day’s lectures, but a little white lie never hurt anybody; he texts back that he isn’t, sends, _Dr. Jeon is a chef, too? i’ll bring some wine lol._

Dinner is momentarily forgotten when Jihoon all but drags Wonwoo to his bedroom, deposits the wine bottle on the living room couch on the way there. He pulls him down by the back of his neck to kiss him. “I want you to fuck me,” he says against his mouth, suddenly breathless. “Do you have condoms?” 

Wonwoo’s gone cross-eyed, staring at Jihoon’s lips when he says, “I do. Are you sure?” 

“Never been more sure,” he says, and he grabs Wonwoo’s shirt, shoves it up until he can’t anymore. “Now take your clothes off, please.” 


	7. so they understand (Chan/Hansol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chan gave Hansol a cursory glance before turning his attention back to his language book. “What am I to you in America?” 
> 
> Another sleepy, baritone laugh. Hansol rolled onto his side to plant a kiss onto Chan’s bare thigh. “My fiancé—remember?” 
> 
> No, he hadn’t. It always slips Chan’s mind, the fact that he can marry Hansol in the states. They’re working out the logistics, fumbling with the paperwork and how Hansol’s dual citizenship plays a part in expediting the process. Chan wants to say his vows entirely in English. Hansol had insisted that it doesn’t matter, half of his family understands Korean just fine—but, no, Chan wants everyone at the reception to understand him. There are some things that you can’t convey through body language alone; no matter what anyone says, in Chan’s opinion, one of them is love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howddyyy 
> 
> this was what i wrote for a sensory prompt a little bit ago (feelings of fingertips on a shoulder blade), and i wanted to move it to ao3. i'll be moving them over for a bit, since i've written several. 
> 
> here is chansol as fiancés!

Despite taking the time to meticulously work his way through phrase books and language apps, Chan’s English is intelligible at worst, mediocre at best. It’s not from lack of effort; the very moment Hansol kissed his shoulder, shyly asked him if he was alright with flying to Manhattan with him, Chan was already brainstorming an English learning schedule. Work from eight to five, dinner and shower at six,  _ Rosetta Stone _ and  _ Conversational English _ from eight to ten. He even practiced greetings and farewells with Hansol, graduating to basic question-answer conversation when they cooked and ate together. At night, Chan swished the unfamiliar pronunciations around in his mouth, mumbling under his breath what he deemed essential:  _ Hello, how are you? I’m fine. My name is Chan. Lee Chan. I am your son’s boyfriend. _

Hansol had laughed at that last one. He was under the covers and half-asleep while Chan sat up on the headboard, glasses and nightstand lamp on, his book resting against his bent legs. “They already know that, babe,” Hansol mumbled. His voice was gruff and slow and with sleep. “And you’re not my boyfriend in America.” 

Chan gave Hansol a cursory glance before turning his attention back to his language book. “What am I to you in America?” 

Another sleepy, baritone laugh. Hansol rolled onto his side to plant a kiss onto Chan’s bare thigh. “My fiancé—remember?” 

No, he hadn’t. It always slips Chan’s mind, the fact that he can marry Hansol in the states. They’re working out the logistics, fumbling with the paperwork and how Hansol’s dual citizenship plays a part in expediting the process. Chan wants to say his vows entirely in English. Hansol had insisted that it doesn’t matter, half of his family understands Korean just fine—but, no, Chan wants everyone at the reception to understand him. There are some things that you can’t convey through body language alone; no matter what anyone says, in Chan’s opinion, one of them is love. 

So Chan practiced for two months leading up to their flight. And he’d felt  _ prepared _ , had so much to say to Hansol’s parents and baby sister over supper, so much to tell his mother and father as they lounge out on the veranda and share snacks. 

Then he lands in New York City. And they drive to Hansol’s Manhattan home. And Chan comes face to face with Hansol’s mother—Hansol’s  _ mother _ —and it isn’t via phone call. It isn’t via texts on a screen or on facetime, whenever Hansol’s catching up with his family and tilts the phone to show Chan, saying,  _ m’baby is here with me. Say hi!  _ This is Hansol’s mother in the flesh, holding the door open and smiling so hard that her eyes disappear. Just like that, Chan’s mind draws a blank. 

Just like that, Chan’s propelled four months into the past, when he could barely ask someone’s name without pausing after every word. His tongue twists sloppily in his mouth, lips unable to mold around the girth of his self-imposed expectations. 

Hansol handles the greetings, immediately noticing that Chan is malfunctioning right there on the doorstep, suitcase handle in one hand, backpack strap in another. They’re allowed inside, and Chan continues to stand and watch, mute, as Hansol tells them about the taxing flight there, about how things are going in Korea, inside their one-bedroom apartment in Mapo. His father insists they remain in the kitchen to eat and catch up, but Hansol catches Chan in his arms, says, “We would, but we’re so tired from traveling. We’re gonna head up to bed.” 

Bed means Hansol’s childhood bedroom. The minute Chan sits on the edge of his twin mattress, everything flows back inside of him—the English, his malaise, his anger and disappointment. 

“This one is  _ right _ before I moved to Korea,” Hansol’s explaining. “My mom gave me that god awful haircut ‘nd I told her I’ll never forgive her.” Hansol points at his photo board at his old friends, the life he had before Chan ever came into the picture. “And this is from when I went kayaking with Sofia in Can—” 

When he turns to look at Chan, he quiets. 

“Sorry.” Chan wipes at his cheeks, a futile attempt to erase the evidence as if Hansol hasn’t already caught him crying. “This is just—I’m so stupid. They think I’m a fucking  _ idiot _ , right? They’re—” — _ gonna say you made a mistake asking for my hand in marriage. _

“Hey,” Hansol breathes. He goes to sit beside Chan’s slumped form, tips Chan’s head up from beneath his chin so he can find him behind the curtain of dark brown hair. “Hey, hey. Babe. Look at me.” Chan doesn’t look. Half of his face is obscured by a hand. “It’s okay. This is a lot to take in, I know. But—they love you. C’mon, please look at me.” 

Now Chan braves a glance. Hansol’s eyebrows are furrowed in concern, lips quirked downwards, just the expression Chan wanted to avoid. “I practiced.” 

Hansol moves his fingers from Chan’s chin to his back, curls them into the thin cotton of his tee. “I know you did. I saw.” 

“I  _ practiced _ ,” Chan’s voice does a dangerous crack at the end, and he instantly shuts up and shields his face again. This time he can’t hold back a pathetic little sob. He’s ruining everything. Hansol thinks he’s an idiot, too, even if he doesn’t say it aloud. This isn’t how Chan planned this trip. 

There isn’t anymore insisting. Hansol lets him cry it out, like he always does when Chan is being irrational and emotional and  _ stupid _ . Instead, he slips his hand underneath the sleeveless tee in the back. His fingertips brush over the bare skin of Chan’s shoulder blades, doing tiny scritches as they work side to side. Subtle and yet it never fails to give Chan comfort. 

They do this for a few minutes. The muffled sounds of downstairs conversation and cars passing fill in the silence. 

Then, when Hansol flattens his fingers out, Chan can feel the cold sting of his ring finger’s gold band. Chan sighs and leans into it, moth to a flame. 

“Better?” Hansol whispers. 

It’s not. It won’t be for the rest of the evening. But it sedates Chan for now, the warmth of Hansol’s fingertips over his shoulder blades, the band’s frigid bite that tells him he has the rest of their lives to right his wrongs. 

Chan rests his head on Hansol’s shoulder, sniffles. “Yeah.” 


	8. my love is your love (seokmin/jihoon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jihoon smiles, and music blooms in Seokmin’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Lee WOOZI Jihoon day.

Jihoon smiles, and music blooms in Seokmin’s chest. They lie side-by-side in Jihoon’s hotel bed, sharing earbuds so Seokmin can listen to the demos Jihoon has been working on in-between shows. Experimental stuff—some pop with a jazz feel, others slow R&B. The ballads, with their soft piano and hum of violins, Jihoon says, are yours. When Seokmin catches Jihoon’s gaze, Jihoon’s eyes curve against his cheeks, his face shifting to make room for that wide, thin-lipped smile. 

That’s the night Seokmin realizes that music blooms in Jihoon’s chest, too. Of course it does—Jihoon is the corporeal form of a melody, pleasing and ever-present—but Seokmin never knew he could do that, make Jihoon’s heart hum. He loves in quiet ways, packaged how each member needs it: Seokmin subsists off overt gestures. A touch, sweet words, little mumbles of encouragement. He’s never said it aloud (embarrassed by what he considers to be needy, overbearing), though Jihoon’s quiet love means that he’s listening, and he’s watching.   
  
Seokmin’s never seen Jihoon cry. At least, not since they were rookies and stood on stage with their first win, first award. He’s seen him despair, he’s seen him rage and stew it in; he’s seen a range of human emotion. And despite it, Jihoon’s never demeaned or criticized Seokmin for being quick to crumble. Always, no matter who’s present or where they are, Seokmin curls into Jihoon while he sobs, and Jihoon pulls him in. A tender, grounding weight around his shoulders, his middle. 

Some days Jihoon doesn’t speak; he lets his embrace murmur those _you’re okay, it’s okay_ ’s. Other days, when Seokmin feels as if the world is crumbling with him, Jihoon’s steady tone lulls him to sleep. “You’re okay,” Jihoon tells him, “it’s okay.” He’s okay. 

Music blooms in Seokmin’s chest, and it blooms in Jihoon’s, too. They create songs together. In the studio, on stage, in bed. 


	9. reflections on glass (Chan/Soonyoung)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This routine is practically innate to them. Every year as teens spent dancing around one another, not wanting to get any closer and yet succumbing to the gravitational pull. Edging closer and closer until Chan’s tongue is in Soonyoung’s mouth, and he’s being shoved into an empty room to take and to give. It’s tricky, dangerous, and Chan is meant to be out there on the patio, playing along with their unwritten rules and acquainting himself with the Kims’ daughter. Soonyoung is meant to be the country’s boyfriend, no one and everyone’s. They aren’t meant tobe fucking other men. 
> 
> No one follows the rules. Not Chan’s family, not Soonyoung’s. Their lives are splayed across curved glass, images stretched and distorted and made ugly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy, 
> 
> this was a sensory prompt i wrote a little bit ago. wanted to upload some of them to my ao3. 
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Chan sees him in the distorted reflection of his beer bottle before he can walk around the kitchen island. It’s a quiet black-tie affair, held in his family’s Pyeongchang estate. Last year was at the Kims’ residence. Chan still doesn’t quite understand it, even after so many years spent cycling through his parents’ business partners and friends’ homes; something about celebrating their sales, congregating to make new deals, new connections. How you can create new connections in such an incestuous, Gangwon community, Chan has no idea. That’s what he’s been told, and he’s never bothered to ask anymore questions, less his father tells him to stop being so nosy. Now, he shuts up and does as he’s told. 

The reflection blends into his own shadow, and then there’s a palm to the small of his back, a sea breeze cologne in his nose. “I thought I’d find you here,” Soonyoung says. He’s always been slightly taller than Chan, but with the heel in his leather shoes he seems that much taller. 

Chan tips his head back to look at him. Soonyoung’s hair is pale blonde, fringe playing in his eyelashes with every blink. Chan had decided to play his luck following his own father’s footsteps into business, the Lee chaebol, while Soonyoung did what a lot stupidly rich, stupidly bored kids do: became an idol. A shitload of money and a very lax contract later, Soonyoung only had to train for a year before he debuted as lead dancer and center of a five-member idol group. 

“Not a fan of crowds,” Chan supplies. “Has starvation ruined your memory?” 

Soonyoung laughs as if Chan hadn’t just condescended him, cheeks displacing into his eyes. “No need for diets when you dance for a living,” he says coolly. His palm hasn’t moved from its spot, and Soonyoung shifts closer, his chest knocking into Chan’s shoulder. Their shadows play across the glass bottle. Chan leans into his touch. 

Luckily, the kitchen is tucked away, far enough from the heart of the event that the violins and chatter are muted, displaced by the wide, open space of the living and dining room. The only people that ever go to the kitchen are their cooks, the help, and they’re all currently busy serving the guests. This leaves Chan, and Soonyoung, and the platters of back-up appetizers, unopened bottles of sparkling water and champagne. 

“How long until the speeches?” Soonyoung asks. His body’s a furnace, his fingers a brand through Chan’s suit jacket. 

Chan wet his lips. “An hour,” he says. 

This routine is practically innate to them. Every year as teens spent dancing around one another, not wanting to get any closer and yet succumbing to the gravitational pull. Edging closer and closer until Chan’s tongue is in Soonyoung’s mouth, and he’s being shoved into an empty room to take and to give. It’s tricky, dangerous, and Chan is meant to be out there on the patio, playing along with their unwritten rules and acquainting himself with the Kims’ daughter. Soonyoung is meant to be the country’s boyfriend, no one and everyone’s. They aren’t meant to be fucking other men. 

No one follows the rules. Not Chan’s family, not Soonyoung’s. Their lives are splayed across curved glass, images stretched and distorted and made ugly. 

Soonyoung curls himself into Chan’s side and watches as Chan downs the rest of his beer and slides the bottle back, against the wall and out of the light.

“The third floor is closed off,” Chan tells him.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading. all feedback means a lot to me. 
> 
> [my CC if you wanna chat!](https://curiouscat.me/disiIIusioned)


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